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LOS  ANGELES 


LIGHT 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


UNDER  FIRE 

One  of  the  great  arresting  books  of  the 
war:  the  first  one  to  face  without  sentimen- 
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soldier  towards  a  war  in  which  he  is  forced 
to  take  part.  Net,  $1.90. 


WE  OTHERS.    STORIES  OF 
FATE,  LOVE  AND  PASSION. 

A  collection  of  the  author's  best  short 
stories,  illustrating  his  power  of  getting  at 
the  springs  of  human  action  and  human 
emotion.  Net,  $1.75. 


E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


LIGHT 


BY 

HENRI  BARBUSSE 

AUTHOR  OP  "UNDER  FIRE  "  "WB  OTHFRS,"  ETC. 


TRANSLATED  BY 

FITZWATER  WRAY 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
E.  P.  DUTTON   &  COMPANY 


All  Right!  Reserved 


Firtt  printing. . .  .September,  1919 
Second  printing.  .September,  1919 
Third  printing. .  .September,  1919 
Fourth  printing. .  September,  1919 


printed  in  the  dnftcd  States  of  America 


PQ 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGI 

I.      MYSELF I 

II.      OURSELVES 17 

in.      EVENING  AND  DAWN 34 

IV.      MARIE 45 

V.      DAY  BY  DAY 55 

VI.      A  VOICE  IN  THE  EVENING 62 

VH.      A  SUMMARY 69 

VIII.      THE  BRAWLER 80 

IX.      THE  STORM 93 

X.      THE  WALLS 103 

xi.    AT  THE  WORLD'S  END 108 

XII.      THE  SHADOWS 133 

Xin.      WHITHER  GOEST  THOU? 151 

XIV.      THE  RUINS 169 

XV.      AN  APPARITION 176 

XVI.      DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI 184 

XVII.      MORNING 212 

XVIII.      EYES  THAT  SEE 222 

xrx.    GHOSTS .  230 

XX.      THE  CULT 238 

XXI.      NO! 272 

XXII.      LIGHT 280 

XXni.      FACE  TO  FACE 297 

V 


f*.  ••- -I  O 

<-/-*.  o 


LIGHT 


LIGHT 

CHAPTER  I 

MYSELF 

ALL  the  days  of  the  week  are  alike,  from  their  begin- 
ning to  their  end. 

At  seven  in  the  evening  one  hears  the  clock  strike 
gently,  and  then  the  instant  tumult  of  the  bell.  I  close 
the  desk,  wipe  my  pen,  and  put  it  down.  I  take  my 
hat  and  muffler,  after  a  glance  at  the  mirror — a  glance 
which  shows  me  the  regular  oval  of  my  face,  my  glossy 
hair  and  fine  mustache.  (It  is  obvious  that  I  am 
rather  more  than  a  workman.)  I  put  out  the  light  and 
descend  from  my  little  glass-partitioned  office.  I  cross 
the  boiler-house,  myself  in  the  grip  of  the  thronging, 
echoing  peal  which  has  set  it  free.  From  among  the 
dark  and  hurrying  crowd,  which  increases  in  the  cor- 
ridors and  rolls  down  the  stairways  like  a  cloud,  some 
passing  voices  cry  to  me,  "Good-night,  Monsieur  Simon," 
or,  with  less  familiarity,  "Good-night,  Monsieur  Paulin." 
I  answer  here  and  there,  and  allow  myself  to  be  borne 
away  by  everybody  else. 

Outside,  on  the  threshold  of  the  porch  which  opens 
on  the  naked  plain  and  its  pallid  horizons,  one  sees  the 
squares  and  triangles  of  the  factory,  like  a  huge  black 
background  of  the  stage,  and  the  tall  extinguished  chim- 
ney, whose  only  crown  now  is  the  cloud  of  falling  night. 

i 


2  LIGHT 

Confusedly,  the  dark  flood  carries  me  away.  Along  the 
wall  which  faces  the  porch,  women  are  waiting,  like  a 
curtain  of  shadow,  which  yields  glimpses  of  their  pale 
and  expressionless  faces.  With  nod  or  word  we  recog- 
nize each  other  from  the  mass.  Couples  are  formed  by 
the  quick  hooking  of  arms.  All  along  the  ghostly  ave- 
nue one's  eyes  follow  the  toilers'  scrambling  flight. 

The  avenue  is  a  wan  track  cut  across  the  open 
fields.  Its  course  is  marked  afar  by  lines  of  puny  trees, 
sooty  as  snuffed  candles;  by  telegraph  posts  and  their 
long  spider-webs;  by  bushes  or  by  fences,  which  are 
like  the  skeletons  of  bushes.  There  are  a  few  houses. 
Up  yonder  a  strip  of  sky  still  shows  palely  yellow  above 
the  meager  suburb  where  creeps  the  muddy  crowd  de- 
tached from  the  factory.  The  west  wind  sets  quivering 
their  overalls,  blue  or  black  or  khaki,  excites  the  woolly 
tails  that  flutter  from  muffled  necks,  scatters  some  evil 
odors,  attacks  the  sightless  faces  so  deep-drowned  be- 
neath the  sky. 

There  are  taverns  anon  which  catch  the  eye.  Their 
doors  are  closed,  but  their  windows  and  fanlights  shine 
like  gold.  Between  the  taverns  rise  the  fronts  of  some 
old  houses,  tenantless  and  hollow;  others,  in  ruins,  cut 
into  this  gloomy  valley  of  the  homes  of  men  with  notches 
of  sky.  The  iron-shod  feet  all  around  me  on  the  hard 
road  sound  like  the  heavy  rolling  of  drums,  and  then 
on  the  paved  footpath  like  dragged  chains.  It  is  in  vain 
that  I  walk  with  head  bent — my  own  footsteps  are  lost 
in  the  rest,  and  I  cannot  hear  them. 

We  hurry,  as  we  do  every  evening.  At  that  spot  in 
the  inky  landscape  where  a  tall  and  twisted  tree  seems 
to  writhe  as  if  it  had  a  soul,  we  begin  suddenly  to  de- 
scend, our  feet  plunging  forward.  Down  below  we  see 
the  lights  of  Viviers  sparkle.  These  men,  whose  day  is 
worn  out,  stride  towards  those  earthly  stars.  One  hope 
is  like  another  in  the  evening,  as  one  weariness  is  like 


MYSELF  3 

another;  we  are  all  alike.  ,x  I,  also.    I  go  towards  my 
light,  like  all  the  others,  as  on  every  evening. 

*  *  *          •  *  "        *  * 

When  we  have  descended  for  a  long  time  the  gradient 
ends,  the  avenue  flattens  out  like  a  river,  and  widens  as 
it  pierces  the  town.  Through  the  latticed  boughs  of  the 
old  plane  trees — still  naked  on  this  lasV^ay  of  March — 
one  glimpses  the  workmen's  houses,  upright  in  space, 
hazy  and  fantastic  chessboards,  with  squares*  of  light 
dabbed  on  in  places,  or  like  vertical  cliffs  in  which  our 
swarming  is  absorbed.  Scattering  among  the  twilight 
colonnade  of  the  trees,  these  people  engulf  themselves  in 
the  heaped-up  lodgings  and  rooms;  they  flow  together  in 
the  cavity  of  doors;  they  plunge  into  the  houses;  and 
there  they  are  vaguely  turned  into  lights. 

I  continue  to  walk,  surrounded  by  several  companions 
who  are  foremen  and  clerks,  for  I  do  not  associate  with 
the  workmen.  Then  there  are  handshakes,  and  I  go  on 
alone. 

Some  dimly  seen  wayfarers  disappear;  the  sounds  of 
sliding  locks  and  closing  shutters  are  heard  here  and 
there;  the  houses  have  shut  themselves  up,  the  night- 
bound  town  becomes  a  desert  profound.  I  can  hear  noth- 
ing now  but  my  own  footfall. 

Viviers  is  divided  into  two  parts — like  many  towns, 
no  doubt.  First,  the  rich  town,  composed  of  the  main 
street,  where  you  find  the  Grand  Cafe,  the  elegant  hotels, 
the  sculptured  houses,  the  church  and  the  castle  on  the 
hill-top.  The  other  is  the  lower  town,  which  I  am  now 
entering.  It  is  a  system  of  streets  reached  by  an  exten- 
sion of  that  avenue  which  is  flanked  by  the  workmen's 
barracks  and  climbs  to  the  level  of  the  factory.  Such 
is  the  way  which  it  has  been  my  custom  to  climb  in  the 
morning  and  to  descend  when  the  light  is  done,  during 
the  six  years  of  my  clerkship  with  Messrs.  Gozlan  &  Co. 
In  this  quarter  I  am  still  rooted.  Some  day  I  should 


4  LIGHT 

like  to  live  yonder;  but  between  the  two  halves  of  the 
town  there  is  a  division — a  sort  of  frontier,  which  has 
always  been  and  will  always  be. 

In  the  Rue  Verte  I  meet  only  a  street  lamp,  and  then 
a  mouse-like  little  girl  who  emerges  from  the  shadows 
and  enters  them  again  without  seeing  me,  so  intent  is 
she  on  pressing  to  her  heart,  like  a  doll,  the  big  loaf  they 
have  sent  her  to  buy.  Here  is  the  Rue  de  1'Etape,  my 
street.  Through  the  semi-darkness,  a  luminous  move- 
ment peoples  the  hairdresser's  shop,  and  takes  shape  on 
the  dull  screen  of  his  window.  His  transparent  door, 
with  its  arched  inscription,  opens  just  as  I  pass,  and 
under  the  soap-dish,1  whose  jingle  summons  customers, 
Monsieur  Justin  Pocard  himself  appears,  along  with  a 
rich  gust  of  scented  light.  He  is  seeing  a  customer  out, 
and  improving  the  occasion  by  the  utterance  of  certain 
sentiments;  and  I  had  time  to  see  that  the  customer,  con- 
vinced, nodded  assent,  and  that  Monsieur  Pocard,  the 
oracle,  was  caressing  his  white  and  ever-new  beard  with 
his  luminous  hand. 

I  turn  round  the  cracked  walls  of  the  former  tinplate 
works,  now  bowed  and  crumbling,  whose  windows  are 
felted  with  grime  or  broken  into  black  stars.  A  few 
steps  farther  I  think  I  saw  the  childish  shadow  of  little 
Antoinette,  whose  bad  eyes  they  don't  seem  to  be  curing; 
but  not  being  certain  enough  to  go  and  find  her  I  turn 
into  my  court,  as  I  do  every  evening. 

Every  evening  I  find  Monsieur  Crillon  at  the  door  of 
his  shop  at  the  end  of  the  court,  where  all  day  long  he 
is  fiercely  bent  upon  trivial  jobs,  and  he  rises  before  me 
like  a  post.  At  sight  of  me  the  kindly  giant  nods  his 
big,  shaven  face,  and  the  square  cap  on  top,  his  huge 
nose  and  vast  ears.  He  taps  the  leather  apron  that  is 
hard  as  a  plank.  He  sweeps  me  along  to  the  side  of 
the  street,  sets  my  back  against  the  porch  and  says  to 

*Thc  hanging  sign  of  a  French  barber. — Tr. 


MYSELF  5 

me,  in  a  low  voice,  but  with  heated  conviction,  "That 
Petrarque  chap,  he's  really  a  bad  lot." 

He  takes  off  his  cap,  and  while  the  crescendo  nodding 
of  his  bristly  head  seems  to  brush  the  night,  he  adds: 
"I've  mended  him  his  purse.  It  had  become  percolated. 
I've  put  him  a  patch  on  that  cost  me  thirty  centimes, 
and  I've  resewn  the  edge  with  braid,  and  all  the  lot. 
They're  expensive,  them  jobs.  Well,  when  I  open  my 
mouth  to  talk  about  that  matter  of  his  sewing-machine 
that  I'm  interested  in  and  that  he  can't  use  himself,  he 
becomes  congealed." 

He  recounts  to  me  the  mad  claims  of  Trompson  in 
the  matter  of  his  new  soles,  and  the  conduct  of  Monsieur 
Becret,  who,  though  old  enough  to  know  better,  had 
taken  advantage  of  his  good  faith  by  paying  for  the 
repair  of  his  spout  with  a  knife  "that  would  cut  any- 
thing it  sees."  He  goes  on  to  detail  for  my  benefit  all 
the  important  matters  in  his  life.  Then  he  says,  "I'm 
not  rich,  I'm  not,  but  I'm  consentious.  If  I'm  a 
botcher,  it's  'cos  my  father  and  my  grandfather  were 
botchers  before  me.  There's  some  that's  for  making  a 
big  stir  in  the  world,  there  are.  I  don't  hold  with  that 
idea.  What  I  does,  I  does." 

Suddenly  a  sonorous  tramp  persists  and  repeats  itself 
in  the  roadway,  and  a  shape  of  uncertain  equilibrium 
emerges  and  advances  towards  us  by  fits  and  starts;  a 
shape  that  clings  to  itself  and  is  impelled  by  a  force 
stronger  than  itself.  It  is  Brisbille,  the  blacksmith, 
drunk,  as  usual. 

Espying  us,  Brisbille  utters  exclamations.  When  he 
has  reached  us  he  hesitates,  and  then,  smitten  by  a  sud- 
den idea,  he  comes  to  a  standstill,  his  boots  clanking  on 
the  stones,  as  if  he  were  a  cart.  He  measures  the  height 
of  the  curb  with  his  eye,  but  clenches  his  fists,  swallows 
what  he  wanted  to  say,  and  goes  off  reeling,  with  an  odor 
of  hatred  and  wine,  and  his  face  slashed  with  red  patches. 


6  LIGHT 

"That  anarchist!"  said  Crillon,  in  disgust;  "loathsome 
notions,  now,  aren't  they?  Ah!  who'll  rid  us  of  him  and 
his  alcoholytes?"  he  adds,  as  he  offers  me  his  hand. 
"Good-night.  I'm  always  saying  to  the  Town  Council, 
'You  must  give  'em  clink,'  I  says,  'that  gang  of  Bol- 
shevists, for  the  slightest  infractionment  of  the  laws 
against  drunkenness.'  Yes,  indeed!  There's  that  Jean 
Latrouille  in  the  Town  Council,  eh?  They  talk  about 
keeping  order,  but  as  soon  as  it's  a  question  of  a-doing 
of  it,  they  seem  like  a  cold  draught." 

The  good  fellow  is  angry.  He  raises  his  great  fist  and 
shakes  it  in  space  like  a  medieval  mace.  Pointing  where 
Brisbille  has  just  plunged  floundering  into  the  night,  he 
says,  "That's  what  Socialists  are, — the  conquering  peo- 
ple what  can't  stand  up  on  their  legs!  I  may  be  a 
botcher  in  life,  but  I'm  for  peace  and  order.  Good- 
night, good-night.  Is  she  well,  Aunt  Josephine?  I'm 
for  tranquillity  and  liberty  and  order.  That's  why  I've 
always  kept  clear  of  their  crowd.  A  bit  since,  I  saw  her 
trotting  past,  as  vivacious  as  a  young  girl, — but  there, 
I  talk  and  I  talk!" 

He  enters  his  shop,  but  turns  on  his  heel  and  calls  me 
back,  with  a  mysterious  sign.  "You  know  they've  all 
arrived  up  yonder  at  the  castle?"  Respect  has  subdued 
his  voice;  a  vision  is  absorbing  him  of  the  lords  and 
ladies  of  the  manor,  and  as  he  leaves  me  he  bows,  in- 
stinctively. 

His  shop  is  a  narrow  glass  cage,  which  is  added  to 
our  house,  like  a  family  relation.  Within  I  can  just 
make  out  the  strong,  plebeian  framework  of  Crillon  him- 
self, upright  beside  a  serrated  heap  of  ruins,  over  which 
a  candle  is  enthroned.  The  light  which  falls  on  his  ac- 
cumulated tools  and  on  those  hanging  from  the  wall 
makes  a  decoration  obscurely  golden  around  the  picture 
of  this  wise  man;  this  ?oul  all  innocent  of  envious  de- 


MYSELF  7 

mands,  turning  again  to  his  botching,  as  his  father  and 
grandfather  botched. 

I  have  mounted  the  steps  and  pushed  our  door;  the 
gray  door,  whose  only  relief  is  the  key.  The  door  goes  in 
grumblingly,  and  makes  way  for  me  into  the  dark  passage, 
which  was  formerly  paved,  though  now  the  traffic  of 
soles  has  kneaded  it  with  earth,  and  changed  it  into  a 
footpath.  My  forehead  strikes  the  lamp,  which  is 
hooked  on  the  wall;  it  is  out,  oozing  oil,  and  it  stinks. 
One  never  sees  that  lamp,  and  always  bangs  it. 

And  though  I  had  hurried  so — I  don't  know  why — to 
get  home,  at  this  moment  of  arrival  I  slow  down.  Every 
evening  I  have  the  same  small  and  dull  disillusion. 

I  go  into  the  room  which  serves  us  as  kitchen  and 
dining-room,  where  my  aunt  is  lying.  This  room  is 
buried  in  almost  complete  darkness. 

"Good  evening,  Mame." 

A  sigh,  and  then  a  sob  arise  from  the  bed  crammed 
against  the  pale  celestial  squares  of  the  window. 

Then  I  remember  that  there  was  a  scene  between  my 
old  aunt  and  me  after  our  early  morning  coffee.  Thus 
it  is  two  or  three  times  a  week.  This  time  it  was  about 
a  dirty  window-pane,  and  on  this  particular  morning, 
exasperated  by  the  continuous  gush  of  her  reproaches, 
I  flung  an  offensive  word,  and  banged  the  door  as  I  went 
off  to  work.  So  Mame  has  had  to  weep  all  the  day. 
She  has  fostered  and  ruminated  her  spleen,  and  sniffed 
up  her  tears,  even  while  busy  with  household  duties. 
Then,  as  the  day  declined,  she  put  out  the  lamp  and 
went  to  bed,  with  the  object  of  sustaining  and  displaying 
her  chagrin. 

When  I  came  in  she  was  in  the  act  of  peeling  invisible 
potatoes;  there  are  potatoes  scattered  over  the  floor, 
everywhere.  My  feet  kick  them  and  send  them  rolling 
heavily  among  odds  and  ends  of  utensils  and  a  soft 


8  LIGHT 

deposit  of  garments  that  are  lying  about.  As  soon  as 
I  am  there  my  aunt  overflows  with  noisy  tears. 

Not  daring  to  speak  again,  I  sit  down  in  my  usual 
corner. 

Over  the  bed  I  can  make  out  a  pointed  shape,  like  a 
mounted  picture,  silhouetted  against  the  curtains,  which 
slightly  blacken  the  window.  It  is  as  though  the  quilt 
were  lifted  from  underneath  by  a  stick,  for  my  Aunt 
Josephine  is  leanness  itself. 

Gradually  she  raises  her  voice  and  begins  to  lament. 
"You've  no  feelings,  no — you're  heartless, — that  dread- 
ful word  you  said  to  me, — you  said,  'You  and  your  jaw- 
ing 1'  Ah!  people  don't  know  what  I  have  to  put  up 
with — ill-natured — cart-horse! " 

In  silence  I  hear  the  tear-streaming  words  that  fall 
and  founder  in  the  dark  room  from  that  obscure  blot  on 
the  pillow  which  is  her  face. 

I  stand  up.  I  sit  down  again.  I  risk  saying,  "Come 
now,  come;  that's  all  done  with." 

She  cries:  "Done  with?  Ah!  it  will  never  be  done 
with!" 

With  the  sheet  that  night  is  begriming  she  muzzles 
herself,  and  hides  her  face.  She  shakes  her  head  to  left 
and  to  right,  violently,  so  as  to  wipe  her  eyes  and  signify 
dissent  at  the  same  time. 

"Never!  A  word  like  that  you  said  to  me  breaks  the 
heart  forever.  But  I  must  get  up  and  get  you  some- 
thing to  eat.  You  must  eat.  I  brought  you  up  when 
you  were  a  little  one," — her  voice  capsizes — "I've  given 
up  all  for  you,  and  you  treat  me  as  if  I  were  an  adven- 
turess." 

I  hear  the  sound  of  her  skinny  feet  as  she  plants  them 
successively  on  the  floor,  like  two  boxes.  She  is  seeking 
her  things,  scattered  over  the  bed  or  slipped  to  the  floor; 
she  is  swallowing  sobs.  Now  she  is  upright,  shapeless 
in  the  shadow,  but  from  time  to  time  I  see  her  remark- 


MYSELF  9 

able  leanness  outlined.  She  slips  on  a  camisole  and  a 
jacket, — a  spectral  vision  of  garments  which  unfold 
themselves  about  her  handle-like  arms,  and  above  the 
hollow  framework  of  her  shoulders. 

She  talks  to  herself  while  she  dresses,  and  gradually 
all  my  life-history,  all  my  past  comes  forth  from  what 
the  poor  woman  says, — my  only  near  relative  on  earth; 
as  it  were  my  mother  and  my  servant. 

She  strikes  a  match.  The  lamp  emerges  from  the 
dark  and  zigzags  about  the  room  like  a  portable  fairy. 
My  aunt  is  enclosed  in  a  strong  light.  Her  eyes  are 
level  with  her  face;  she  has  heavy  and  spongy  eyelids 
and  a  big  mouth  which  stirs  with  ruminated  sorrow. 
Fresh  tears  increase  the  dimensions  of  her  eyes,  make 
them  sparkle  and  varnish  the  points  of  her  cheeks.  She 
comes  and  goes  with  undiminished  spleen.  Her  wrinkles 
form  heavy  moldings  on  her  face,  and  the  skin  of  chin 
and  neck  is  so  folded  that  it  looks  intestinal,  while  the 
crude  light  tinges  it  all  with  something  like  blood. 

Now  that  the  lamp  is  alight  some  items  become  visible 
of  the  dismal  super-chaos  in  which  we  are  walled  up, — 
the  piece  of  bed-ticking  fastened  with  two  nails  across 
the  bottom  of  the  window,  because  of  draughts;  the 
marble-topped  chest  of  drawers,  with  its  woolen  cover; 
and  the  door-lock,  stopped  with  a  protruding  plug  of 
paper. 

The  lamp  is  flaring,  and  as  Mame  does  not  know 
where  to  stand  it  among  the  litter,  she  puts  it  on  the 
floor  and  crouches  to  regulate  the  wick.  There  rises 
from  the  medley  of  the  old  lady,  vividly  variegated  with 
vermilion  and  night,  a  jet  of  black  smoke,  which  returns 
in  parachute  form.  Mame  sighs,  but  she  cannot  check 
her  continual  talk. 

"You,  my  lad,  you  who  are  so  genteel  when  you  like, 
and  earn  a  hundred  and  eighty  francs  a  month, — you're 
genteel,  but  you're  short  of  good  manners,  it's  that 


10  LIGHT 

chiefly  I  find  fault  with  you  about.  So  you  spat  on  the 
window-pane;  I'm  certain  of  it.  May  I  drop  dead  if 
you  didn't.  And  you're  nearly  twenty-four!  And  to 
revenge  yourself  because  I'd  found  out  that  you'd  spat 
on  the  window,  you  told  me  to  stop  my  jawing,  for  that's 
what  you  said  to  me,  after  all.  Ah,  vulgar  fellow  that 
you  are!  The  factory  gentlemen  are  too  kind  to  you. 
Your  poor  father  was  their  best  workman.  You  are 
more  genteel  than  your  poor  father,  more  English;  and 
you  preferred  to  go  into  business  rather  than  go  on  learn- 
ing Latin,  and  everybody  thought  you  quite  right;  but 
for  hard  work  you're  not  much  good — ah,  la,  lal  Con- 
fess that  you  spat  on  the  window. 

"For  your  poor  mother,"  the  ghost  of  Mame  goes  on, 
as  she  crosses  the  room  with  a  wooden  spoon  in  her  hand, 
"one  must  say  that  she  had  good  taste  in  dress.  That's 
no  harm,  no ;  but  certainly  they  must'  have  the  where- 
withal. She  was  always  a  child.  I  remember  she  was 
twenty-six  when  they  carried  her  away.  Ah,  how  she 
loved  hats!  But  she  had  handsome  ways,  for  all  that, 
when  she  said,  'Come  along  with  us,  Josephine!'  So  I 
brought  you  up,  I  did,  and  sacrificed  everything.  .  .  ." 

Overcome  by  the  mention  of  the  past,  Mame's  speech 
and  action  both  cease.  She  chokes  and  wags  her  head 
and  wipes  her  face  with  her  sleeve. 

I  risk  saying,  gently,  "Yes,  I  know  it  well." 

A  sigh  is  my  answer.  She  lights  the  fire.  The  coal 
sends  out  a  cushion  of  smoke,  which  expands  and  rolls 
up  the  stove,  falls  back,  and  piles  its  muslin  on  the  floor. 
Mame  manipulates  the  stove  with  her  feet  in  the  cloudy 
deposit;  and  the  hazy  white  hair  which  escapes  from 
her  black  cap  is  also  like  smoke. 

Then  she  seeks  her  handkerchief  and  pats  her  pockets 
to  get  the  velvet  coal-dust  off  her  fingers.  Now,  with 
her  back  turned,  she  is  moving  casseroles  about.  "Mon- 
sieur Crillon's  father,"  she  says,  "old  Dominic,  had  come 


MYSELF  n 

from  County  Cher  to  settle  down  here  in  '66  or  '67.  He's 
a  sensible  man,  seeing  he's  a  town  councilor.  (We 
must  tell  him  nicely  to  take  his  buckets  away  from  our 
door.)  Monsieur  Boneas  is  very  rich,  and  he  speaks  so 
well,  in  spite  of  his  bad  neck.  You  must  show  yourself 
off  to  all  these  gentlemen.  You're  genteel,  and  you're 
already  getting  a  hundred  and  eighty  francs  a  month, 
and  it's  vexing  that  you  haven't  got  some  sign  to  show 
that  you're  on  the  commercial  side,  and  not  a  workman, 
when  you're  going  in  and  out  of  the  factory." 

"That  can  be  seen  easily  enough." 

"I'd  rather  you  had  a  badge." 

Breathing  damply  and  forcefully,  she  sniffs  harder  and 
quicker,  and  looks  here  and  there  for  her  handkerchief; 
she  prowls  with  the  lamp.  As  my  eyes  follow  her,  the 
room  awakens  more  and  more.  My  groping  gaze  dis- 
covers the  tiled  floor,  the  conference  of  chairs  backed 
side  by  side  against  the  wall,  the  motionless  pallor  of 
the  window  in  the  background  above  the  low  and  swol- 
len bed,  which  is  like  a  heap  of  earth  and  plaster,  the 
clothes  lying  on  the  floor  like  mole-hills,  the  protruding 
edges  of  tables  and  shelves,  pots,  bottles,  kettles  and 
hanging  clouts,  and  that  lock  with  the  cotton-wool  in 
its  ear. 

"I  like  orderliness  so  much,"  says  Mame  as  she  tacks 
and  worms  her  way  through  this  accumulation  of  things, 
all  covered  with  a  downy  layer  of  dust  like  the  corners 
of  pastel  pictures. 

According  to  habit,  I  stretch  out  my  legs  and  put  my 
feet  on  the  stool,  which  long  use  has  polished  and  glori- 
fied till  it  looks  new.  My  face  turns  this  way  and  that 
towards  the  lean  phantom  of  my  aunt,  and  I  lull  myself 
with  the  sounds  of  her  stirring  and  her  endless  murmur. 

And  now,  suddenly,  she  has  come  near  to  me.  She  is 
wearing  her  jacket  of  gray  and  white  stripes  which  hangs 
from  her  acute  shoulders,  she  puts  her  arm  around  my 


12  LIGHT 

neck,  and  trembles  as  she  says,  "You  can  mount  high, 
you  can,  with  the  gifts  that  you  have.  Some  day,  per- 
haps, you  will  go  and  tell  men  everywhere  the  truth  of 
things.  That  has  happened.  There  have  been  men  who 
were  in  the  right,  above  everybody.  Why  shouldn't  you 
be  one  of  them,  my  lad,  you  one  of  these  great  apostles! " 
And  with  her  head  gently  nodding,  and  her  face  still 
tear-stained,  she  looks  afar,  and  sees  the  streets  atten- 
tive to  my  eloquence! 

****** 

Hardly  has  this  strange  imagining  in  the  bosom  of  our 
kitchen  passed  away  when  Mame  adds,  with  her  eyes  on 
mine,  "My  lad,  mind  you,  never  look  higher  than  your- 
self. You  are  already  something  of  a  home-bird;  you 
have  already  serious  and  elderly  habits.  That's  good. 
Never  try  to  be  different  from  others." 

"No  danger  of  that,  Mame." 

No,  there  is  no  danger  of  that.  I  should  like  to  remain 
as  I  am.  Something  holds  me  to  the  surroundings  of 
my  infancy  and  childhood,  and  I  should  like  them  to  be 
eternal.  No  doubt  I  hope  for  much  from  life.  I  hope, 
I  have  hopes,  as  every  one  has.  I  do  not  even  know  all 
that  I  hope  for,  but  I  should  not  like  too  great  changes. 
In  my  heart  I  should  not  like  anything  which  changed 
the  position  of  the  stove,  of  the  tap,  of  the  chestnut 
wardrobe,  nor  the  form  of  my  evening  rest,  which  faith- 
fully returns. 

****** 

The  fire  alight,  my  aunt  warms  up  the  stew,  stirring 
it  with  the  wooden  spoon.  Sometimes  there  spurts  from 
the  stove  a  mournful  flame,  which  seems  to  illumine  her 
with  tatters  of  light. 

I  get  up  to  look  at  the  stew.  The  thick  brown  gravy 
is  purring.  I  can  see  pale  bits  of  potato,  and  it  is  un- 
certainly spotted  with  the  mucosity  of  onions.  Mame 


MYSELF  13 

pours  it  into  a  big  white  plate.  "That's  for  you,"  she 
says;  "now,  what  shall  /  have?" 

We  settle  ourselves  each  side  of  the  little  swarthy 
table.  Mame  is  fumbling  in  her  pocket.  Now  her  lean 
hand,  lumpy  and  dark,  unroots  itself.  She  produces  a 
bit  of  cheese,  scrapes  it  with  a  knife  which  she  holds  by 
the  blade,  and  swallows  it  slowly.  By  the  rays  of  the 
lamp,  which  stands  beside  us,  I  see  that  her  face  is  not 
dry.  A  drop  of  water  has  lingered  on  the  cheek  that 
each  mouthful  protrudes,  and  glitters  there.  Her  great 
mouth  works  in  all  directions,  and  sometimes  swallows 
the  remains  of  tears. 

So  there  we  are,  in  front  of  our  plates,  of  the  salt 
which  is  placed  on  a  bit  of  paper,  of  my  share  of  jam, 
which  is  put  into  a  mustard-pot.  There  we  are,  nar- 
rowly close,  our  foreheads  and  hands  brought  together 
by  the  light,  and  for  the  rest  but  poorly  clothed  by  the 
huge  gloom.  Sitting  in  this  jaded  armchair,  my  hands 
on  this  ill-balanced  table, — which,  if  you  lean  on  one 
side  of  it,  begins  at  once  to  limp, — I  feel  that  I  am  deeply 
rooted  where  I  am,  in  this  old  room,  disordered  as  an 
abandoned  garden,  this  worn-out  room,  where  the  dust 
touches  you  softly. 

After  we  have  eaten,  our  remarks  grow  rarer.  Then 
Mame  begins  again  to  mumble;  once  again  she  yields  to 
emotion  under  the  harsh  flame  of  the  lamp,  and  once 
again  her  eyes  grow  dim  in  her  complicated  Japanese 
mask  that  is  crowned  with  cotton-wool,  and  something 
dimly  shining  flows  from  them. 

The  tears  of  the  sensitive  old  soul  plash  on  that  lip 
so  voluminous  that  it  seems  a  sort  of  heart.  She  leans 
towards  me,  she  comes  so  near,  so  near,  that  I  feel  sure 
she  is  touching  me. 

I  have  only  her  in  the  world  to  love  me  really.  In 
spite  of  her  humors  and  her  lamentations  I  know  well 
that  she  is  always  in  the  right. 


14  LIGHT 

I  yawn,  while  she  takes  away  the  dirty  plates  and 
proceeds  to  hide  them  in  a  dark  corner.  She  fills  the 
big  bowl  from  the  pitcher  and  then  carries  it  along  to 
the  stove  for  the  crockery. 

Antonia  has  given  me  an  appointment  for  eight  o'clock, 
near  the  Kiosk.  It  is  ten  past  eight.  I  go  out.  The 
passage,  the  court, — by  night  all  these  familiar  things 
surround  me  even  while  they  hide  themselves.  A  vague 
light  still  hovers  in  the  sky.  Crillon's  prismatic  shop 
gleams  like  a  garnet  in  the  bosom  of  the  night,  behind 
the  riotous  disorder  of  his  buckets.  There  I  can  see 
Crillon, — he  never  seems  to  stop, — filing  something,  ex- 
amining his  work  close  to  a  candle  which  flutters  like  a 
butterfly  ensnared,  and  then,  reaching  for  the  glue-pot 
which  steams  on  a  little  stove.  One  can  just  see  his 
face,  the  engrossed  and  heedless  face  of  the  artificer  of 
the  good  old  days;  the  black  plates  of  his  ill-shaven 
cheeks;  and,  protruding  from  his  cap,  a  vizor  of  stiff 
hair.  He  coughs,  and  the  window-panes  vibrate. 

In  the  street,  shadow  and  silence.  In  the  distance  are 
venturing  shapes,  people  emerging  or  entering,  and  some 
light  echoing  sounds.  Almost  at  once,  on  the  corner,  I 
see  Monsieur  Joseph  Boneas  vanishing,  stiff  as  a  ramrod. 
I  recognized  the  thick  white  kerchief,  which  consoli- 
dates the  boils  on  his  neck.  As  I  pass  the  hairdresser's 
door  it  opens,  just  as  it  did  a  little  while  ago,  and  his 
agreeable  voice  says,  "That's  all  there  is  to  it,  in  busi- 
ness." "Absolutely,"  replies  a  man  who  is  leaving.  In 
the  oven  of  the  street  one  can  see  only  his  littleness — 
he  must  be  a  considerable  personage,  all  the  same.  Mon- 
sieur Pocard  is  always  applying  himself  to  business  and 
thinking  of  great  schemes.  A  little  farther,  in  the  depths 
of  a  cavity,  stoppered  by  an  iron-grilled  window,  I  divine 
the  presence  of  old  Eudo,  the  bird  of  ill  omen,  the  strange 
old  man  who  coughs,  and  has  a  bad  eye,  and  whines 
continually.  Even  indoors  he  must  wear  his  mournful 


MYSELF  15 

cloak  and  the  lamp-shade  of  his  hood.    People  call  him 
a  spy,  and  not  without  reason. 

Here  is  the  Kiosk.  It  is  waiting  quite  alone,  with  its 
point  in  the  darkness.  Antonia  has  not  come,  for  she 
would  have  waited  for  me.  I  am  impatient  first,  and 
then  relieved.  A  good  riddance. 

No  doubt  Antonia  is  still  tempting  when  she  is  pres- 
ent. There  is  a  reddish  fever  in  her  eyes,  and  her  slen- 
derness  sets  you  on  fire.  But  I  am  hardly  in  harmony 
with  the  Italian.  She  is  particularly  engrossed  in  her 
private  affairs,  with  which  I  am  not  concerned.  Big 
Victorine,  always  ready,  is  worth  a  hundred  of  her;  or 
Madame  Lacaille,  the  pensively  vicious;  though  I  am 
equally  satiated  of  her,  too.  Truth  to  tell,  I  plunge  un- 
reflectingly into  a  heap  of  amorous  adventures  which  I 
shortly  find  vulgar.  But  I  can  never  resist  the  magic 
of  a  first  temptation. 

I  shall  not  wait.  I  go  away.  I  skirt  the  forge  of  the 
ignoble  Brisbille.  It  is  the  last  house  in  that  chain  of 
low  hills  which  is  the  street.  Out  of  the  deep  dark  the 
smithy  window  flames  with  vivid  orange  behind  its  black 
tracery.  In  the  middle  of  that  square-ruled  page  of  light 
I  see  transparently  outlined  the  smith's  eccentric  silhou- 
ette, now  black  and  sharp,  now  softly  huge.  Spectrally 
through  the  glare,  and  in  blundering  frenzy,  he  strives 
and  struggles  and  fumbles  horribly  on  the  anvil.  Sway- 
ing, he  seems  to  rush  to  right  and  to  left,  like  a  passen- 
ger on  a  hell-bound  ferry.  The  more  drunk  he  is,  the 
more  furiously  he  falls  upon  his  iron  and  his  fire. 

I  return  home.  Just  as  I  am  about  to  enter  a  timid 
voice  calls  me — "Simon!" 

It  is  Antonia.  So  much  the  worse  for  her.  I  hurry 
in,  followed  by  the  weak  appeal. 

I  go  up  to  my  room.  It  is  bare  and  always  cold; 
always  I  must  shiver  some  minutes  before  I  shake  it 
back  to  life.  As  I  close  the  shutters  I  see  the  street 


16  LIGHT 

again;  the  massive,  slanting  blackness  of  the  roofs  and 
their  population  of  chimneys  clear-cut  against  the  minor 
blackness  of  space;  some  still  waking,  milk-white  win- 
dows; and,  at  the  end  of  a  jagged  and  gloomy  back- 
ground, the  blood-red  stumbling  apparition  of  the  mad 
blacksmith.  Farther  still  I  can  make  out  in  the  cavity 
the  cross  on  the  steeple;  and  again,  very  high  and  blazing 
with  light  on  the  hill-top,  the  castle,  a  rich  crown  of 
masonry.  In  all  directions  the  eye  loses  itself  among 
the  black  ruins  which  conceal  their  hosts  of  men  and  of 
women — all  so  unknown  and  so  like  myself. 


CHAPTER  II 

OURSELVES 

IT  is  Sunday.  Through  my  open  window  a  living  ray 
of  April  has  made  its  way  into  my  room.  It  has  trans- 
formed the  faded  flowers  of  the  wallpaper  and  restored 
to  newness  the  Turkey-red  stuff  which  covers  my  dress- 
ing-table. 

I  dress  carefully,  dallying  to  look  at  myself  in  the 
glass,  closely  and  farther  away,  in  the  fresh  scent  of 
soap.  I  try  to  make  out  whether  my  eyes  are  little  or 
big.  They  are  the  average,  no  doubt,  but  it  really  seems 
to  me  that  they  have  a  tender  brightness. 

Then  I  look  outside.  It  would  seem  that  the  town, 
under  its  misty  blankets  in  the  hollow  of  the  valley,  is 
awaking  later  than  its  inhabitants. 

These  I  can  see  from  up  here,  spreading  abroad  in 
the  streets,  since  it  is  Sunday.  One  does  not  recognize 
them  all  at  once,  so  changed  are  they  by  their  unusual 
clothes; — women,  ornate  with  color,  and  more  monu- 
mental than  on  week  days;  some  old  men,  slightly 
straightened  for  the  occasion;  and  some  very  lowly  peo- 
ple, whom  only  their  cleanness  vaguely  disguises. 

The  weak  sunshine  is  dressing  the  red  roofs  and  the 
blue  roofs  and  the  sidewalks,  and  the  tiny  little  stone 
setts  all  pressed  together  like  pebbles,  where  polished 
shoes  are  shining  and  squeaking.  In  that  old  house  at 
the  corner,  a  house  like  a  round  lantern  of  shadow, 
gloomy  old  Eudo  is  encrusted.  It  forms  a  comical  blot, 
as  though  traced  on  an  old  etching.  A  little  further, 

17 


i8  LIGHT 

Madame  Piot's  house  bulges  forth,  glazed  like  pottery. 
By  the  side  of  these  uncommon  dwellings  one  takes  no 
notice  of  the  others,  with  their  gray  walls  and  shining 
curtains,  although  it  is  of  these  that  the  town  is  made. 
Halfway  up  the  hill,  which  rises  from  the  river  bank, 
and  opposite  the  factory's  plateau,  appears  the  white 
geometry  of  the  castle,  and  around  its  pallors  a  tapes- 
try of  reddish  foliage,  and  parks.  Farther  away,  pas- 
tures and  growing  crops  which  are  part  of  the  demesne; 
farther  still,  among  the  stripes  and  squares  of  brown 
earth  or  verdant,  the  cemetery,  where  every  year  so 
many  stones  spring  up. 

****** 

We  have  to  call  at  Brisbille's,  my  aunt  and  I,  before 
Church.  We  are  forced  to  tolerate  him  thus,  so  as  to 
get  our  twisted  key  put  right.  I  wait  for  Mame  in  the 
court,  sitting  on  a  tub  by  the  shop,  which  is  lifeless 
to-day,  and  full  of  the  scattered  leavings  of  toil.  Mame 
is  never  ready  in  time.  She  has  twice  appeared  on  the 
threshold  in  her  fine  black  dress  and  velvet  cape;  then, 
having  forgotten  something,  she  has  gone  back  very 
quickly,  like  a  mole.  Finally,  she  must  needs  go  up  to 
my  room,  to  cast  a  last  glance  over  it. 

At  last  we  are  off,  side  by  side.  She  takes  my  arm 
proudly.  From  time  to  time  she  looks  at  me,  and  I  at 
her,  and  her  smile  is  an  affectionate  grimace  amid  the 
sunshine. 

When  we  have  gone  a  little  way,  my  aunt  stops,  "You 
go  on,"  she  says;  "I'll  catch  you  up." 

She  has  gone  up  to  Apolline,  the  street-sweeper.  The 
good  woman,  as  broad  as  she  is  long,  was  gaping  on  the 
edge  of  the  causeway,  her  two  parallel  arms  feebly  row- 
ing in  the  air,  an  exile  in  the  Sabbath  idleness,  and 
awkwardly  conscious  of  her  absent  broom. 

Mame  brings  her  along,  and  looking  back  as  I  walk, 
I  hear  her  talking  of  me,  hastily,  as  one  who  confides  a 


OURSELVES  19 

choking  secret,  while  Apolline  follows,  with  her  arms 
swinging  far  from  her  body,  limping  and  outspread  like 
a  crab. 

Says  Mame,  "That  boy's  bedroom  is  untidy.  And 
then,  too,  he  uses  too  many  shirt-collars,  and  he  doesn't 
know  how  to  blow  his  nose.  He  stuffs  handkerchiefs  into 
his  pockets,  and  you  find  them  again  like  stones." 

"All  the  same,  he's  a  good  young  man,"  stammers  the 
waddling  street  cleanser,  brandishing  her  broom-bereaved 
hands  at  random,  and  shaking  over  her  swollen  and 
many-storied  boots  a  skirt  weighted  round  the  hem  by 
a  coat-of-mail  of  dry  mud. 

These  confidences  with  which  Mame  is  in  the  habit 
of  breaking  forth  before  no  matter  whom  get  on  my 
nerves.  I  call  her  with  some  impatience.  She  starts  at 
the  command,  comes  up,  and  throws  me  a  martyr's 
glance. 

She  proceeds  with  her  nose  lowered  under  her  black 
hat  with  green  foliage,  hurt  that  I  should  thus  have 
summoned  her  before  everybody,  and  profoundly  irri- 
tated. So  a  persevering  malice  awakens  again  in  the 
depths  of  her,  and  she  mutters,  very  low,  "You  spat  on 
the  window  the  other  day!" 

But  she  cannot  resist  hooking  herself  again  on  to  an- 
other interlocutor,  whose  Sunday  trousers  are  planted 
on  the  causeway,  like  two  posts,  and  his  blouse  as  stiff 
as  a  lump  of  iron  ore.  I  leave  them,  and  go  alone  into 
Brisbille's. 

The  smithy  hearth  befires  a  workshop  which  bristles 
with  black  objects.  In  the  middle  of  the  dark  bodies  of 
implements  hanging  from  walls  and  ceiling  is  the  metal- 
lic Brisbille,  with  leaden  hands,  his  dark  apron  rain- 
bowed  with  file-dust, — dirty  on  principle,  because  of  his 
ideas,  this  being  Sunday.  He  is  sober,  and  his  face  still 
unkindled,  but  he  is  waiting  impatiently  for  the  church- 


20  LIGHT 

going  bell  to  begin,  so  that  he  may  go  and  drink,  in 
complete  solitude. 

Through  an  open  square,  in  the  ponderous  and  dirt- 
shaggy  glazing  of  the  smithy,  one  can  see  a  portion  of 
the  street,  and  a  sketch,  in  bright  and  airy  tones,  of 
scattered  people.  It  is  like  the  sharply  cut  field  oi 
vision  in  an  opera-glass,  in  which  figures  are  drawn  and 
shaded,  and  cross  each  other;  where  one  makes  out,  at 
times,  a  hat  bound  and  befeathered,  swaying  as  it  goes; 
a  little  boy  with  sky-blue  tie  and  buttoned  boots,  and 
tubular  knickers  hanging  round  his  thin,  bare  calves;  a 
couple  of  gossiping  dames  in  swollen  and  somber  petti- 
coats, who  tack  hither  and  thither,  meet,  are  mutually  at- 
tracted and  dissolve  in  conversation,  like  rolling  drops 
of  ink.  In  the  foreground  of  this  colored  cinema  which 
goes  by  and  passes  again,  Brisbille,  the  sinister,  is  rant- 
ing away,  as  always.  He  is  red  and  lurid,  spotted  with 
freckles,  his  hair  greasy,  his  voice  husky.  For  a  mo- 
ment, while  he  paces  to  and  fro  in  his  cage,  dragging 
shapeless  and  gaping  shoes  behind  him,  he  speaks  to 
me  in  a  low  voice,  and  close  to  my  face,  in  gusts.  Bris- 
bille can  shout,  but  not  talk;  there  must  be  a  definite 
pressure  of  anger  before  his  resounding  huskiness  issues 
from  his  throat. 

Mame  comes  in.  She  sits  on  a  stool  to  get  her  breath 
again,  all  the  while  brandishing  the  twisted  key  which 
she  clasps  to  the  prayer-book  in  her  hand.  Then  she 
unburdens  herself  and  begins  to  speak  in  fits  and  starts 
of  this  key,  of  the  mishap  which  twisted  it,  and  of  all 
the  multiple  details  which  overlap  each  other  in  her 
head.  But  the  slipshod,  gloomy  smith's  attention  is 
suddenly  attracted  by  the  hole  which  shows  the  street. 

"The  lubber!"  he  roars. 

It  is  Monsieur  Fontan  who  is  passing,  the  wine- 
merchant  and  cafe-proprietor.  He  is  an  expansive  and 
imposing  man,  fat-covered,  and  white  as  a  house.  He 


OURSELVES  21 

never  says  anything  and  is  always  alone.  A  great  per- 
sonage he  is;  he  makes  money;  he  has  amassed  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  francs.  At  noon  and  in  the  eve- 
ning he  is  not  to  be  seen,  having  dived  into  the  room 
behind  the  shop,  where  he  takes  his  meals  in  solitude. 
The  rest  of  the  time  he  just  sits  at  the  receipt  of  cus- 
tom and  says  nothing.  There  is  a  hole  in  his  counter 
where  he  slides  the  money  in.  His  house  is  filling  with 
money  from  morning  till  night. 

"He's  a  money-trap,"  says  Mame. 

"He's  rich,"  I  say. 

"And  when  you've  said  that,"  jeers  Brisbille,  "you've 
said  all  there  is  to  say.  Why,  you  damned  snob,  you're 
only  a  poor  drudge,  like  all  us  chaps,  but  haven't  you 
just  got  the  snob's  ideas?" 

I  make  a  sign  of  impatience.  It  is  not  true,  and  Bris- 
bille annoys  me  with  the  hatred  which  he  hurls  at  ran- 
dom, hit  or  miss;  and  all  the  more  because  he  is  himself 
visibly  impressed  by  the  approach  of  this  man  who  is 
richer  than  the  rest.  The  rebel  opens  his  steely  eye  and 
relapses  into  silence,  like  the  rest  of  us,  as  the  big  person 
grows  bigger. 

"The  Boneas  are  even  richer,"  my  aunt  murmurs. 

Monsieur  Fontan  passes  the  open  door,  and  we  can 
hear  the  breathing  of  the  corpulent  recluse.  As  soon  as 
he  has  carried  away  the  enormous  overcoat  that  sheathes 
him,  like  the  hide  of  a  pachyderm,  and  is  disappearing, 
Brisbille  begins  to  roar,  "What  a  snout!  Did  you  see 
it,  eh?  Did  you  see  the  jaws  he  swings  from  his  ears, 
eh?  The  exact  likeness  of  a  hog!" 

Then  he  adds,  in  a  burst  of  vulgar  delight,  "Luckily, 
we  can  expect  it'll  all  burst  before  long!" 

He  laughs  alone.  Mame  goes  and  sits  apart.  She 
detests  Brisbille,  who  is  the  personification  of  envy, 
malice  and  coarseness.  And  everybody  hates  this 
marionette,  too,  for  his  drunkenness  and  his  forward 


22  LIGHT 

notions.  All  the  same,  when  there  is  something  you 
want  him  to  do,  you  choose  Sunday  morning  to  call, 
and  you  linger  there,  knowing  that  you  will  meet  others. 
This  has  become  a  tradition. 

"They're  going  to  cure  little  Antoinette,"  says  Benoit, 
as  he  frames  himself  in  the  doorway. 

Bendit  is  like  a  newspaper.  He  to  whom  nothing  ever 
happens  only  lives  to  announce  what  is  happening  to 
others. 

"I  know,"  cries  Mame,  "they  told  me  so  this  morn- 
ing. Several  people  already  knew  it  this  morning  at 
seven.  A  big,  famous  doctor's  coming  to  the  castle  it- 
self, for  the  hunting,  and  he  only  treats  just  the  eyes." 

"Poor  little  angel!"  sighs  a  woman,  who  has  just 
come  in. 

Brisbille  intervenes,  rancorous  and  quarrelsome,  "Yes, 
they're  always  going  to  cure  the  child,  so  they  say.  Bad 
luck  to  them!  Who  cares  about  her?" 

"Everybody  does!"  reply  two  incensed  women,  in  the 
same  breath. 

"And  meanwhile,"  said  Brisbille,  viciously,  "she's 
snuffing  it."  And  he  chews,  once  more,  his  customary 
saying — pompous  and  foolish  as  the  catchword  of  a  pub- 
lic meeting — "She's  a  victim  of  society!" 

Monsieur  Joseph  Boneas  has  come  into  Brisbille's, 
and  he  does  it  complacently,  for  he  is  not  above  mixing 
with  the  people  of  the  neighborhood.  Here,  too,  are 
Monsieur  Pocard,  and  Crillon,  new  shaved,  his  polished 
skin  taut  and  shiny,  and  several  other  people.  Prom- 
inent among  them  one  marks  the  wavering  head  of  Mon- 
sieur Mielvaque,  who,  in  his  timidity  and  careful  respect 
for  custom,  took  his  hat  off  as  he  crossed  the  threshold. 
He  is  only  a  copying-clerk  at  the  factory;  he  wears 
much-used  and  dubious  linen,  and  a  frail  and  orphaned 
jacket  which  he  dons  for  all  occasions. 

Monsieur  Joseph  Boneas  overawes  me.    My  eyes  are 


OURSELVES  23 

attracted  by  his  delicate  profile,  the  dull  gloom  of  his 
morning  attire,  and  the  luster  of  his  black  gloves,  which 
are  holding  a  little  black  rectangle,  gilt-edged. 

He,  too,  has  removed  his  hat.  So  I,  in  my  corner, 
discreetly  remove  mine,  too. 

He  is  a  young  man,  refined  and  distinguished,  who 
impresses  by  his  innate  elegance.  Yet  he  is  an  invalid, 
tormented  by  abscesses.  One  never  sees  him  but  his 
neck  is  swollen,  or  his  wrists  enlarged  by  a  ghastly  out- 
crop. But  the  sickly  body  encloses  bright  and  sane  in- 
telligence. I  admire  him  because  he  is  thoughtful  and 
full  of  ideas,  and  can  express  himself  faultlessly.  Recently 
he  gave  me  a  lesson  in  sociology,  touching  the  links  be- 
tween the  France  of  to-day  and  the  France  of  tradition, 
a  lesson  on  our  origins  whose  plain  perspicuity  was  a 
revelation  to  me.  I  seek  his  company;  I  strive  to  imi- 
tate him,  and  certainly  he  is  not  aware  how  much  influ- 
ence he  has  over  me. 

All  are  attentive  while  he  says  that  he  is  thinking  of 
organizing  a  young  people's  association  in  Viviers.  Then 
he  speaks  to  me,  "The  farther  I  go  the  more  I  perceive 
that  all  men  are  afflicted  with  short  sight.  They  do  not 
see,  nor  can  they  see,  beyond  the  end  of  their  noses." 

"Yes,"  say  I. 

My  reply  seems  rather  scanty,  and  the  silence  which 
follows  repeats  it  mercilessly.  It  seems  so  to  him,  too, 
no  doubt,  for  he  engages  other  interlocutors,  and  I  feel 
myself  redden  in  the  darkness  of  Brisbille's  cavern. 

Crillon  is  arguing  with  Brisbille  on  the  matter  of  the 
recent  renovation  of  an  old  hat,  which  they  keep  hand- 
ing to  each  other,  and  examine  ardently.  Crillon  is 
sitting,  but  he  keeps  his  eyes  on  it.  Heart  and  soul  he 
applies  himself  to  the  debate.  His  humble  trade  as  a 
botcher  does  not  allow  a  fixed  tariff,  and  he  is  all  alone 
as  he  vindicates  the  value  of  his  work.  With  his  fists 
he  hammers  the  gray-striped  mealy  cloth  on  his  knees, 


24  LIGHT 

and  the  hair,  which  grows  thickly  round  his  big  neck, 
gives  him  the  nape  of  a  wild  boar. 

"That  felt,"  he  complains,  "111  tell  you  what  was  the 
matter  with  it.  It  was  rain,  heavy  rain,  that  had 
drowned  it.  That  felt,  I  tells  you,  was  only  like  a  dirty 
handkerchief.  What  does  that  represent — in  ebullition 
of  steam,  in  gumming,  and  the  passage  of  time?" 

Monsieur  Justin  Pocard  is  talking  to  three  compan- 
ions, who,  hat  in  hand,  are  listening  with  all  their  ears. 
He  is  entertaining  them  in  his  sonorous  language  about 
the  great  financial  and  industrial  combination  which  he 
has  planned.  A  speculative  thrill  electrifies  the  com- 
pany. 

"That'll  brush  business  up!"  says  Crillon,  in  wonder, 
torn  for  a  moment  from  contemplation  of  the  hat,  but 
promptly  relapsing  on  it. 

Joseph  Boneas  says  to  me,  in  an  undertone, — and  I 
am  flattered, — "That  Pocard  is  a  man  of  no  education, 
but  he  has  practical  sense.  That's  a  big  idea  he's  got, — 
at  least  if  he  sees  things  as  I  see  them." 

And  I,  I  am  thinking  that  if  I  were  older  or  more 
influential  in  the  district,  perhaps  I  should  be  in  the 
Pocard  scheme,  which  is  taking  shape,  and  will  be  huge. 

Meanwhile,  Brisbille  is  scowling.  An  unconfessable 
disquiet  is  accumulating  in  his  bosom.  All  this  gather- 
ing is  detaining  him  at  home,  and  he  is  tormented  by 
the  desire  for  drink.  He  cannot  conceal  his  vinous  long- 
ing, and  squints  darkly  at  the  assembly.  On  a  week 
day  at  this  hour  he  would  already  have  begun  to  slake 
his  thirst.  He  is  parched,  he  burns,  he  drags  himself 
from  group  to  group.  The  wait  is  longer  than  he  can 
stand. 

Suddenly  every  one  looks  out  to  the  street  through 
the  still  open  door. 

A  carriage  is  making  its  way  towards  the  church;  it 
has  a  green  body  and  silver  lamps.  The  old  coachman, 


OURSELVES  25 

whose  great  glove  sways  the  slender  scepter  of  a  whip, 
is  so  adorned  with  overlapping  capes  that  he  suggests 
several  men  on  the  top  of  each  other.  The  black  horse 
is  prancing. 

"He  shines  like  a  piano,"  says  Benoit. 

The  Baroness  is  in  the  carriage.  The  blinds  are 
drawn,  so  she  cannot  be  seen,  but  every  one  salutes  the 
carriage. 

"All  slaves!"  mumbles  Brisbille.  "Look  at  yourselves 
now,  just  look!  All  the  lot  of  you,  as  soon  as  a  rich 
old  woman  goes  by,  there  you  are,  poking  your  noses 
into  the  ground,  showing  your  bald  heads,  and  growing 
humpbacked." 

"She  does  good,"  protests  one  of  the  gathering. 

"Good?  Ah,  yes,  indeed!"  gurgles  the  evil  man, 
writhing  as  though  in  the  grip  of  some  one;  "I  call  it 
ostentation — that's  what  /  call  it." 

Shoulders  are  shrugged,  and  Monsieur  Joseph  Boneas, 
always  self-controlled,  smiles. 

Encouraged  by  that  smile,  I  say,  "There  have  always 
been  rich  people,  and  there  must  be." 

"Of  course,"  trumpets  Crillon,  "that's  one  of  the  es- 
tablished thoughts  that  you  find  in  your  head  when  you 
fish  for  'em.  But  mark  what  I  says, — there's  some  that 
dies  of  envy.  I'm  not  one  of  them  that  dies  of  envy.'x 

Monsieur  Mielvaque  has  put  his  hat  back  on  his  petri- 
fied head  and  gone  to  the  door.  Monsieur  Joseph 
Boneas,  also,  turns  his  back  and  goes  away. 

All  at  once  Crillon  cries,  "There's  Petrarque!"  and 
darts  outside  on  the  track  of  a  big  body,  which,  having 
seen  him,  opens  its  long  pair  of  compasses  and  escapes 
obliquely. 

"And  to  think,"  says  Brisbille,  with  a  horrible  grimace, 
when  Crillon  has  disappeared,  "that  the  scamp  is  a  town 
councilor!  Ah,  by  God!" 

He  foams,  as  a  wave  of  anger  runs  through  him,  sway- 


26  LIGHT 

ing  on  his  feet,  and  gaping  at  the  ground.  Between  his 
fingers  there  is  a  shapeless  cigarette,  damp  and  shaggy, 
which  he  rolls  in  all  directions,  patching  up  and  re- 
sticking  it  unceasingly. 

Charged  with  snarls  and  bristling  with  shoulder- 
shrugs,  the  smith  rushes  at  his  fire  and  pulls  the  bellows- 
chain,  his  yawning  shoes  making  him  limp  like  Vulcan. 
At  each  pull  the  bellows  send  spouting  from  the  dust- 
filled  throat  of  the  furnace  a  cutting  blue  comet,  lined 
with  crackling  and  dazzling  white,  and  therein  the  man 
forges. 

Purpling  as  his  agitation  rises,  nailed  to  his  imprison- 
ing corner,  alone  of  his  kind,  a  rebel  against  all  the 

immensity  of  things,  the  man  forges. 

****** 

The  church  bell  rang,  and  we  left  him  there.  When 
I  was  leaving  I  heard  Brisbille  growl.  No  doubt  I  got 
my  quietus  as  well.  But  what  can  he  have  imagined 
against  me? 

We  meet  again,  all  mixed  together  in  the  Place  de 
PEglise.  In  our  part  of  the  town,  except  for  a  clan 
of  workers  whom  one  keeps  one's  eye  on,  every  one 
goes  to  church,  men  as  well  as  women,  as  a  matter  of 
propriety,  out  of  gratitude  to  employers  or  lords  of  the 
manor,  or  by  religious  conviction.  Two  streets  open  into 
the  Place  and  two  roads,  bordered  with  apple-trees,  as 
well,  so  that  these  four  ways  lead  town  and  country  to 
the  Place. 

It  has  the  shape  of  a  heart,  and  is  delightful.  It  is 
shaded  by  a  very  old  tree,  under  which  justice  was 
formerly  administered.  That  is  why  they  call  it  the 
Great  Tree,  although  there  are  greater  ones.  In  winter 
it  is  dark,  like  a  perforated  umbrella.  In  summer  it 
gives  the  bright  green  shadow  of  a  parasol.  Beside  the 
tree  a  tall  crucifix  dwells  in  the  Place  forever. 

The   Place  is   swarming   and   undulating.      Peasants 


OURSELVES  27 

from  the  surrounding  country,  in  their  plain  cotton  caps, 
are  waiting  in  the  old  corner  of  the  Rue  Neuve,  heaped 
together  like  eggs.  These  people  are  loaded  with  pro- 
visions. At  the  farther  end,  square-paved,  one  picks  out 
swarthy  outlines  of  the  Epinal  type,  and  faces  as  brightly 
colored  as  apples.  Groups  of  children  flutter  and 
chirrup;  little  girls  with  their  dolls  play  at  being 
mothers,  and  little  boys  play  at  brigands.  Respectable 
people  take  their  stand  more  ceremoniously  than  the 
common  crowd,  and  talk  business  piously. 

Farther  away  is  the  road,  which  April's  illumination 
adorns  all  along  the  lines  of  trees  with  embroidery  of 
shadow  and  of  gold,  where  bicycles  tinkle  and  carriages 
rumble  echoingly;  and  the  shining  river, — those  long- 
drawn  sheets  of  water,  whereon  the  sun  spreads  sheets 
of  light  and  scatters  blinding  points.  Looking  along  the 
road,  on  either  side  of  its  stone-hard  surface,  one  sees 
the  pleasant,  cultivated  earth,  the  bits  of  land  sewn  to 
each  other,  and  many-hued,  brown  or  green  as  the  bil- 
liard cloth,  then  paling  in  the  distance.  Here  and 
there,  on  this  map  in  colors,  copses  bulge  forth.  The 
by-roads  are  pricked  out  with  trees,  which  follow  each 
other  artlessly  and  divide  the  infantile  littleness  of 
orchards. 

This  landscape  holds  us  by  the  soul.  It  is  a  water- 
color  now  (for  it  rained  a  little  last  night),  with  its 
washed  stones,  its  tiles  varnished  anew,  its  roofs  that 
are  half  slate  and  half  light,  its  shining  pavements,  water- 
jeweled  in  places,  its  delicately  blue  sky,  with  clouds 
like  silky  paper;  and  between  two  house-fronts  of  yel- 
low ocher  and  tan,  against  the  purple  velvet  of  distant 
forests,  there  is  the  neighboring  steeple,  which  is  like 
ours  and  yet  different.  Roundly  one's  gaze  embraces  all 
the  panorama,  which  is  delightful  as  the  rainbow. 

From  the  Place,  then,  where  one  feels  himself  so  abun- 
dantly at  home,  we  enter  the  church.  From  the  depths 


28  LIGHT 

of  his  thicket  of  lights,  the  good  priest  murmurs  the 
great  infinite  speech  to  us,  blesses  us,  embraces  us  sever- 
ally and  altogether,  like  father  and  mother  both.  In 
the  manorial  pew,  the  foremost  of  all,  one  glimpses  the 
Marquis  of  Monthyon,  who  has  the  air  of  an  officer,  and 
his  mother-in-law,  Baroness  Grille,  who  is  dressed  like 
an  ordinary  lady. 

Emerging  from  church,  the  men  go  away;  the  women 
swarm  out  more  grudgingly  and  come  to  a  standstill 
together;  then  all  the  buzzing  groups  scatter. 

At  noon  the  shops  close.  The  fine  ones  do  it  un- 
assisted; the  others  close  by  the  antics  of  some  good 
man  who  exerts  himself  to  carry  and  fit  the  shutters. 
Then  there  is  a  great  void. 

After  lunch  I  wander  in  the  streets.  In  the  house  I 
am  bored,  and  yet  outside  I  do  not  know  what  to  do. 
I  have  no  friend  and  no  calls  to  pay.  I  am  already 
too  big  to  mingle  with  some,  and  too  little  yet  to  asso- 
ciate with  others.  The  cafes  and  licensed  shops  hum, 
jingle  and  smoke  already.  I  do  not  go  to  cafes,  on  prin- 
ciple, and  because  of  that  fondness  for  spending  nothing, 
which  my  aunt  has  impressed  on  me.  So,  aimless,  I 
walk  through  the  deserted  streets,  which  at  every  corner 
yawn  before  my  feet.  The  hours  strike  and  I  have  the 
impression  that  they  are  useless,  that  one  will  do  nothing 
with  them. 

I  steer  in  the  direction  of  the  fine  gardens  which  slope 
towards  the  river.  A  little  enviously  I  look  over  the 
walls  at  the  tops  of  these  opulent  enclosures,  at  the  tips 
of  those  great  branches  where  still  clings  the  soiled,  out- 
of-fashion  finery  of  last  summer. 

Far  from  there,  and  a  good  while  after,  I  encounter 
Tudor,  the  clerk  at  the  Modern  Pharmacy.  He  hesitates 
and  doubts,  and  does  not  know  where  to  go.  Every 
Sunday  he  wears  the  same  collar,  with  turned  down 
corners,  and  it  is  becoming  gloomy.  Arrived  where  I 


OURSELVES  29 

am,  he  stops,  as  though  it  occurred  to  him  that  nothing 
was  pushing  him  forward.  A  half-extinguished  cigarette 
vegetates  in  his  mouth. 

He  comes  with  me,  and  I  take  his  silence  in  tow  as 
far  as  the  avenue  of  plane  trees.  There  are  several  fig- 
ures outspaced  in  its  level  peace.  Some  young  girls  attract 
my  attention;  they  appear  against  the  dullness  of  house- 
fronts  and  against  shop  fronts  in  mourning.  Some  of 
the  charming  ones  are  accompanied  by  their  mothers, 
who  look  like  caricatures  of  them. 

Tudor  has  left  me  without  my  noticing  it. 

Already,  and  slowly  everywhere,  the  taverns  begin  to 
shine  and  cry  out.  In  the  grayness  of  twilight  one  dis- 
cerns a  dark  and  mighty  crowd,  gliding  therein.  In 
them  gathers  a  sort  of  darkling  storm,  and  flashes  emerge 

from  them. 

****** 

And  lo!  Now  the  night  approaches  to  soften  the 
stony  streets. 

Along  the  river  side,  to  which  I  have  gone  down  alone, 
listless  idylls  dimly  appear, — shapes  sketched  in  crayon, 
which  seek  and  join  each  other.  There  are  couples  that 
appear  and  vanish,  strictly  avoiding  the  little  light  that 
is  left.  Night  is  wiping  out  colors  and  features  and 
names  from  both  sorts  of  strollers. 

I  notice  a  woman  who  waits,  standing  on  the  river 
bank.  Her  silhouette  has  pearly-gray  sky  behind  it,  so 
that  she  seems  to  support  the  darkness.  I  wonder  what 
her  name  may  be,  but  only  discover  the  beauty  of  her 
feminine  stillness.  Not  far  from  that  consummate  cary- 
atid, among  the  black  columns  of  the  tall  trees  laid 
against  the  lave  of  the  blue,  and  beneath  their  cloudy 
branches,  there  are  mystic  enlacements  which  move  to 
and  fro;  and  hardly  can  one  distinguish  the  two  halves 
of  which  they  are  made,  for  the  temple  of  night  is  en- 
closing them. 


30  LIGHT 

The  ancient  hut  of  a  fisherman  is  outlined  on  the 
grassy  slope.  Below  it,  crowding  reeds  rustle  in  the 
current;  and  where  they  are  more  sparse  they  fashion 
concentric  orbs  upon  the  gleaming,  fleeing  water.  The 
landscape  has  something  exotic  or  antique  about  it. 
You  are  no  matter  where  in  the  world  or  among  the 
centuries.  You  are  on  some  corner  of  the  eternal  earth, 
where  men  and  women  are  drawing  near  to  each  other, 
and  cling  together  while  they  wrap  themselves  in  mystery. 
****** 

Dreamily  I  ascend  again  towards  the  sounds  and  the 
swarming  of  the  town.  There,  the  Sunday  evening  ren- 
dezvous,— the  prime  concern  of  the  men, — is  less  dis- 
creet. Desire  displays  itself  more  crudely  on  the  pave- 
ments. Voices  chatter  and  laughter  dissolves,  even 
through  closed  doors;  there  are  shouts  and  songs. 

Up  there  one  sees  clearly.  Faces  are  discovered  by 
the  harsh  light  of  the  gas  jets  and  its  reflection  from 
plate-glass  shop  windows.  Antonia  goes  by,  surrounded 
by  men,  who  bend  forward  and  look  at  her  with  desire 
amid  their  clamor  of  conversation.  She  saw  me,  and  a 
little  sound  of  appeal  comes  from  her  across  the  escort 
that  presses  upon  her.  But  I  turn  aside  and  let  her 
go  by. 

When  she  and  her  harness  of  men  have  disappeared, 
I  smell  in  their  wake  the  odor  of  Petrolus.  He  is  lamp- 
man  at  the  factory.  Yellow,  dirty,  cadaverous,  red-eyed, 
he  smells  rancid,  and  was,  perhaps,  nurtured  on  paraffin. 
He  is  some  one  washed  away.  You  do  not  see  him,  so 
much  as  smell  him. 

Other  women  are  there.    Many  a  Sunday  have  I,  too, 

joined  in  all  that  love-making. 

****** 

Among  these  beings  who  chat  and  take  hold  of  each 
other,  an  isolated  woman  stands  like  a  post,  and  makes 
an  empty  space  around  her. 


OURSELVES  31 

It  is  Louise  Verte.  She  is  fearfully  ugly,  and  she  was 
too  virtuous  formerly,  at  a  time  when,  so  they  say,  she 
need  not  have  been.  She  regrets  this,  and  relates  it 
without  shame,  in  order  to  be  revenged  on  virtue.  She 
would  like  to  have  a  lover,  but  no  one  wants  her,  be- 
cause of  her  bony  face  and  her  scraped  appearance; 
from  a  sort  of  eczema.  Children  make  sport  of  her, 
knowing  her  needs;  for  the  disclosures  of  their  elders 
have  left  a  stain  on  them.  A  five-year-old  girl  points 
her  tiny  finger  at  Louise  and  twitters,  "She  wants  a 
man." 

In  the  Place  is  Veron,  going  about  aimlessly,  like  a 
dead  leaf — Veron,  who  revolves,  when  he  may,  round 
Antonia.  An  ungainly  man,  whose  tiny  head  leans  to 
the  right  and  wears  a  colorless  smile.  He  lives  on  a  few 
rents  and  does  not  work.  He  is  good  and  affectionate, 
and  sometimes  he  is  overcome  by  attacks  of  compas- 
sion. 

Veron  and  Louise  Verte  see  one  another, — and  each 
makes  a  detour  of  avoidance.  They  are  afraid  of  each 
other. 

Here,  also,  on  the  margin  of  passion,  is  Monsieur  Jo- 
seph Boneas,  very  compassionable,  in  spite  of  his  intel- 
lectual superiority.  Between  the  turned-down  brim  of 
his  hat  and  his  swollen  white  kerchief, — thick  as  a  towel, 
— a  mournful  yellow  face  is  stuck. 

I  pity  these  questing  solitaries  who  are  looking  for 
themselves!  I  feel  compassion  to  see  those  fruitless 
shadows  hovering  there,  wavering  like  ghosts,  these  poor 
wayfarers,  divided  and  incomplete. 

Where  am  I?  Facing  the  workmen's  flats,  whose 
countless  windows  stand  sharply  out  in  their  huge  flat 
background.  It  is  there  that  Marie  Tusson  lives,  whose 
father,  a  clerk  at  Messrs.  Gozlan's,  like  myself,  is  man- 
ager of  the  property.  I  steered  to  this  place  instinctively, 


32  LIGHT 

without  confessing  it  to  myself,  brushing  people  and 
things  without  mingling  with  them. 

Marie  is  my  cousin,  and  yet  I  hardly  ever  see  her.  We 
just  say  good-day  when  we  meet,  and  she  smiles  at  me. 

I  lean  against  a  plane  tree  and  think  of  Marie.  She 
is  tall,  fair,  strong  and  amiable,  and  she  goes  modestly 
clad,  like  a  wide-hipped  Venus;  her  beautiful  lips  shine 
like  her  eyes. 

To  know  her  so  near  agitates  me  among  the  shadows. 
If  she  appeared  before  me  as  she  did  the  last  time  I  met 
her;  if,  in  the  middle  of  the  dark,  I  saw  the  shining 
radiance  of  her  face,  the  swaying  of  her  figure,  traced 
in  silken  lines,  and  her  little  sister's  hand  in  hers, — I 
should  tremble. 

But  that  does  not  happen.  The  bluish,  cold  back- 
ground only  shows  me  the  two  second-floor  windows 
pleasantly  warmed  by  lights,  of  which  one  is,  perhaps, 
she  herself.  But  they  take  no  sort  of  shape,  and  remain 
in  another  world. 

At  last  my  eyes  leave  that  constellation  of  windows 
among  the  trees,  that  vertical  and  silent  firmament. 
Then  I  make  for  my  home,  in  this  evening  which  comes 
at  the  end  of  all  the  days  I  have  lived. 

****** 

Little  Antoinette,— how  comes  it  that  they  leave  her 
all  alone  like  this? — is  standing  in  my  path  and  holding 
a  hand  out  towards  me.  It  is  her  way  that  she  is  beg- 
ging for.  I  guide  her,  ask  questions  and  listen,  leaning 
over  her  and  making  little  steps.  But  she  is  too  little, 
and  too  lispful,  and  cannot  explain.  Carefully  I  lead 
the  child, — who  sees  so  feebly  that  already  she  is  blind 
in  the  evening,  as  far  as  the  low  door  of  the  dilapidated 
dwelling  where  she  nests. 

In  my  street,  in  front  of  his  lantern-shaped  house, 
with  its  iron-grilled  dormer,  old  Eudo  is  standing,  darkly 
hooded,  and  pointed,  like  the  house. 


OURSELVES  33 

I  am  a  little  afraid  of  him.  Assuredly,  he  has  not  got 
a  clean  conscience.  But,  however  guilty,  he  is  compas- 
sionable.  I  stop  and  speak  to  him.  He  lifts  to  me  out 
of  the  night  of  his  hood  a  face  pallid  and  ruined.  I 
speak  about  the  weather,  of  approaching  spring.  Heed- 
less he  hears,  shapes  "yes"  with  the  tip  of  his  lips,  and 
says,  "It's  twelve  years  now  since  my  wife  died;  twelve 
years  that  I've  been  utterly  alone;  twelve  years  that 
I've  heard  the  last  words  she  said  to  me." 

And  the  poor  maniac  glides  farther  away,  hooded  in 
his  unintelligible  mourning;  and  certainly  he  does  not 
hear  me  wish  him  good-night. 

At  the  back  of  the  cold  downstairs  room  a  fire  has 
been  lighted.  Mame  is  sitting  on  the  stool  beside  it,  in 
the  glow  of  the  flaming  coal,  outstretching  her  hands, 
clinging  to  the  warmth. 

Entering,  I  see  the  bowl  of  her  back.  Her  lean  neck 
has  a  cracked  look  and  is  white  as  a  bone.  Musingly, 
my  aunt  takes  and  holds  a  pair  of  idle  tongs.  I  take  my 
seat.  Mame  does  not  like  the  silence  in  which  I  wrap 
myself.  She  lets  the  tongs  fall  with  a  jangling  shock, 
and  then  begins  vivaciously  to  talk  to  me  about  the 
people  of  the  neighborhood.  "There's  everything  here. 
No  need  to  go  to  Paris,  nor  even  so  much  as  abroad. 
This  part;  it's  a  little  world  cut  out  on  the  pattern  of 
the  others,"  she  adds,  proudly,  wagging  her  worn-out 
head.  "There  aren't  many  of  them  who've  got  the 
wherewithal  and  they're  not  of  much  account.  Puppets, 
if  you  like,  yes.  That's  according  to  how  one  sees  it, 
because  at  bottom  there's  no  puppets, — there's  people 
that  look  after  themselves,  because  each  of  us  always 
deserves  to  be  happy,  my  lad.  And  here,  the  same  as 
everywhere,  the  two  kinds  of  people  that  there  are — 
the  discontented  and  the  respectable;  because,  my  lad, 
what's  always  been  always  will  be." 


CHAPTER  III 

EVENING  AND  DAWN 

JUST  at  the  moment  when  I  was  settling  down  to  audit 
the  Sesmaisons'  account — I  remember  that  detail — there 
came  an  unusual  sound  of  steps  and  voices,  and  before 
I  could  even  turn  round  I  heard  a  voice  through  the 
glass  door  say,  "Monsieur  Paulin's  aunt  is  very  ill." 

The  sentence  stuns  me.  I  am  standing,  and  some  one 
is  standing  opposite  me.  A  draught  shuts  the  door  with 
a  bang. 

Both  of  us  set  off.  It  is  Benoit  who  has  come  to  fetch 
me.  We  hurry.  I  breathe  heavily.  Crossing  the  busy 
factory,  we  meet  acquaintances  who  smile  at  me,  not 
knowing  the  turn  of  affairs. 

The  night  is  cold  and  nasty,  with  a  keen  wind.  The 
sky  drips  with  rain.  We  jump  over  puddles  as  we  walk. 
I  stare  fixedly  at  Benoit's  square  shoulders  in  front  of 
me,  and  the  dancing  tails  of  his  coat  as  the  wind  hustles 
them  along  the  nocturnal  way. 

Passing  through  the  suburban  quarter,  the  wind  comes 
so  hard  between  the  infrequent  houses  that  the  bushes 
on  either  side  shiver  and  press  towards  us,  and  seem  to 
unfurl.  Ah,  we  are  not  made  for  the  greater  happen- 
ings! 

****** 

I  meet  first  in  the  room  the  resounding  glare  of  a 
wood  fire  and  an  almost  repelling  heat.  The  odors  of 
camphor  and  ether  catch  my  throat.  People  that  I 

34 


EVENING  AND  DAWN  35 

know  are  standing  round  the  bed.  They  turn  to  me 
and  speak  all  together. 

I  bend  down  to  look  at  Mame.  She  is  inlaid  upon 
the  whiteness  of  the  bed,  which  is  motionless  as  marble. 
Her  face  is  sunk  in  the  cavity  of  the  pillow.  Her  eyes 
are  half  closed  and  do  not  move;  her  skin  has  darkened. 
Each  breath  hums  in  her  throat,  and  beyond  that  slight 
stirring  of  larynx  and  lips  her  little  frail  body  moves 
no  more  than  a  doll's.  She  has  not  got  her  cap  on  and 
her  gray  hair  is  unraveled  on  her  head  like  flocks  of 
dust. 

Several  voices  at  once  explain  to  me  that  it  is  "double 
congestion,  and  her  heart  as  well."  She  was  attacked 
by  a  dizziness,  by  prolonged  and  terrible  shivering.  She 
wandered,  mentioned  me,  then  suddenly  collapsed.  The 
doctor  has  no  hope  but  is  coming  back.  The  Reverend 
Father  Piot  was  here  at  five. 

Silence  hovers.  A  woman  puts  a  log  in  the  fire,  in 
the  center  of  the  dazzling  cluster  of  snarling  flames, 

whose  light  throws  the  room  into  total  agitation. 
****** 

For  a  long  time  I  look  upon  that  face,  where  ugliness 
and  goodness  are  mingled  in  such  a  heartrending  way. 
My  eyes  seek  those  already  almost  shut,  whose  light  is 
hardening.  Something  of  darkness,  an  internal  shadow 
which  is  of  herself,  overspreads  and  disfigures  her.  One 
may  see  now  how  outworn  she  was,  how  miraculously 
she  still  held  on. 

This  tortured  and  condemned  woman  is  all  that  has 
looked  after  me  for  twenty  years.  For  twenty  years 
she  took  my  hand  before  she  took  my  arm.  She  always 
prevented  me  from  understanding  that  I  was  an  orphan. 
Delicate  and  small  as  I  was  for  so  long,  she  was  taller 
and  stronger  and  better  than  I!  And  at  this  moment, 
which  shows  me  the  past  again  in  one  glance,  I  remem- 
ber that  she  beautified  the  affairs  of  my  childhood  like 


36  LIGHT 

an  old  magician;  and  my  head  goes  lower  as  I  think  of 
her  untiring  admiration  for  me.  How  she  did  love  me! 
And  she  must  love  me  still,  confusedly,  if  some  glimmer- 
ing light  yet  lasts  in  the  depths  of  her.  What  will  be- 
come of  me — all  alone? 

She  was  so  sensitive,  and  so  restless!  A  hundred  de- 
tails of  her  vivacity  come  to  life  again  in  my  eyes.  Stu- 
pidly, I  contemplate  the  poker,  the  tongs,  the  big  spoon 
— all  the  things  she  used  to  flourish  as  she  chattered. 
There  they  are — fallen,  paralyzed,  mute! 

As  in  a  dream  I  go  back  to  the  times  when  she  talked 
and  shouted,  to  days  of  youth,  to  days  of  spring  and  of 
springtime  dresses;  and  all  the  while  my  gaze,  piercing 
that  gay  and  airy  vision,  settles  on  the  dark  stain  of 
the  hand  that  lies  there  like  the  shadow  of  a  hand,  on 
the  sheet. 

My  eyes  are  jumbling  things  together.  I  see  our  gar- 
den in  the  first  fine  days  of  the  year;  our  garden — it  is 
behind  that  wall — so  narrow  is  it  that  the  reflected  sun- 
shine from  our  two  windows  dapples  the  whole  of  it; 
so  small  that  it  only  holds  some  pot-encaged  plants,  ex- 
cept for  the  three  currant  bushes  which  have  always 
been  there.  In  the  scarves  of  the  sun  rays  a  bird — a 
robin — is  hopping  on  the  twigs  like  a  rag  jewel.  All 
dusty  in  the  sunshine  our  red  hound,  Mirliton,  is  warm- 
ing himself.  So  gaunt  is  he  you  feel  sure  he  must  be  a 
fast  runner.  Certainly  he  runs  after  glimpsed  rabbits 
on  Sundays  in  the»country,  but  he  never  caught  any. 
He  never  caught  anything  but  fleas.  When  I  lag  behind 
because  of  my  littleness  my  aunt  turns  round,  on  the 
edge  of  the  footpath,  and  holds  out  her  arms,  and  I  run 
to  her,  and  she  stoops  as  I  come  and  calls  me  by  my 

name. 

****** 

"Simon!    Simon!" 

A  woman  is  here.    I  wrench  myself  from  the  dream 


EVENING  AND  DAWN  37 

which  had  come  into  the  room  and  taken  solidity  before 
me.  I  stand  up;  it  is  my  cousin  Marie. 

She  offers  me  her  hands  among  the  candles  which 
flutter  by  the  bed.  In  their  poor  starlight  her  face  ap- 
pears haggard  and  wet.  My  aunt  loved  her.  Her  lips 
are  trembling  on  her  rows  of  sparkling  teeth;  the  whole 
breadth  of  her  bosom  heaves  quickly. 

I  have  sunk  again  into  the  armchair.  Memories  flow 
again,  while  the  sick  woman's  breathing  is  longer  drawn, 
and  her  stillness  becomes  more  and  more  inexorable. 
Things  she  used  to  say  return  to  my  lips.  Then  my 
eyes  are  raised,  and  look  for  Marie,  and  turn  upon  her. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

She  has  leaned  against  the  wall,  and  remains  so — 
overcome.  She  invests  the  corner  where  she  stands  with 
something  like  profane  and  sumptuous  beauty.  Her 
changeful  chestnut  hair,  like  bronze  and  gold,  forms  moist 
and  disordered  scrolls  on  her  forehead  and  her  innocent 
cheeks.  Her  neck,  especially,  her  white  neck,  appears 
to  me.  The  atmosphere  is  so  choking,  so  visibly  heavy, 
that  it  enshrouds  us  as  if  the  room  were  on  fire,  and 
she  has  loosened  the  neck  of  her  dress,  and  her  throat 
is  lighted  up  by  the  flaming  logs.  I  smile  weakly  at 
her.  My  eyes  wander  over  the  fullness  of  her  hips  and 
her  outspread  shoulders,  and  fasten,  in  that  downfallen 
room,  on  her  throat,  white  as  dawn. 

****** 

The  doctor  has  been  again.  He  stood  some  time  in 
silence  by  the  bed;  and  as  he  looked  our  hearts  froze. 
He  said  it  would  be  over  to-night,  and  put  the  phial  in 
his  hand  back  in  his  pocket.  Then,  regretting  that  he 
could  not  stay,  he  disappeared. 

And  we  stayed  on  beside  the  dying  woman — so  fragile 
that  we  dare  not  touch  her,  nor  even  try  to  speak  to  her. 

Madame  Piot  settles  down  in  a  chair;  she  crosses  her 
arms,  lowers  her  head,  and  the  time  goes  by. 


38  LIGHT 

At  long  intervals  people  take  shape  in  the  darkness 
by  the  door;  people  who  come  in  on  tiptoe  whisper  to 
us  and  go  away. 

The  moribund  moves  her  hands  and  feet  and  con- 
torts her  face.  A  gurgling  comes  from  her  throat,  which 
we  can  hardly  see  in  the  cavity  that  is  like  a  nest  of 
shadow  under  her  chin.  She  has  blenched,  and  the  skin 
that  is  drawn  over  the  bones  of  her  face  like  a  shroud 
grows  whiter  every  moment. 

Intent  upon  her  breathing,  we  throng  about  her.  We 
offer  her  our  hands — so  near  and  so  far — and  do  not 
know  what  to  do. 

I  am  watching  Marie.  She  has  sunk  onto  the  little 
stool,  and  her  young,  full-blooming  body  overflows  it. 
Holding  her  handkerchief  in  her  teeth,  she  has  come  to 
arrange  the  pillow,  and  leaning  over  the  bed,  she  puts 
one  knee  on  a  chair.  The  movement  reveals  her  leg  for 
a  moment,  curved  like  a  beautiful  Greek  vase,  while  the 
skin  seems  to  shine  through  the  black  transparency  of 
the  stocking,  like  clouded  gold.  Ah!  I  lean  forward 
towards  her  with  a  stifled,  incipient  appeal  above  this 
bed,  which  is  changing  into  a  tomb.  The  border  of  the 
tragic  dress  has  fallen  again,  but  I  cannot  remove  my 
eyes  from  that  profound  obscurity.  I  look  at  Marie, 
and  look  at  her  again;  and  though  I  knew  her,  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  wholly  discover  her. 

"I  can't  hear  anything  now,"  says  a  woman. 

"Yes,  I  can— 

"No,  no!"  the  other  repeats. 

Then  I  see  Crillon's  huge  back  bending  over.  My 
aunt's  mouth  opens  gently  and  remains  open.  The  eye- 
lids fall  back  almost  completely  upon  the  stiffened  gleam 
of  the  eyes,  which  squint  in  the  gray  and  bony  mask. 
I  see  Crillon's  big  hand  hover  over  the  little  mummi- 
fied face,  lowering  the  eyelids  and  keeping  them  closed. 


EVENING  AND  DAWN  39 

Marie  utters  a  cry  when  this  movement  tells  her  that 
our  aunt  has  just  died. 

She  sways.  My  hand  goes  out  to  her.  I  take  her, 
support,  and  enfold  her.  Fainting,  she  clings  to  me, 
and  for  one  moment  I  carry — gently,  heavily — all  the 
young  woman's  weight.  The  neck  of  her  dress  is  un- 
done, and  falls  like  foliage  from  her  throat,  and  I  just 
saw  the  real  curve  of  her  bosom,  nakedly  and  distract- 
edly throbbing. 

Her  body  is  agitated.  She  hides  her  face  in  her  hands 
and  then  turns  it  to  mine.  It  chanced  that  our  faces 
met,  and  my  lips  gathered  the  wonderful  savor  of  her 
tears! 

The  room  fills  with  lamentation;  there  is  a  continuous 
sound  of  deep  sighing.  It  is  overrun  by  neighbors  be- 
come friends,  to  whom  no  one  pays  attention. 

And  now,  in  this  sacred  homelet,  where  death  still 
bleeds,  I  cannot  prevent  a  heavy-  heart-beat  in  me 
towards  the  girl  who  is  prostrated  like  the  rest,  but  who 
reigns  there,  in  spite  of  me — of  herself — of  everything. 
I  feel  myself  agitated  by  an  obscure  and  huge  rapture 
— the  birth  of  my  flesh  and  my  vitals  among  these 
shadows.  Beside  this  poor  creature  who  was  so  blended 
with  me,  and  who  is  falling,  falling,  through  a  hell  of 
eternity,  I  am  uplifted  by  a  sort  of  hope. 

I  want  to  fix  my  attention  on  the  fixity  of  the  bed.  I 
put  my  hand  over  my  eyes  to  shut  out  all  thought  save 
of  the  dead  woman,  defenseless  already,  reclining  on  that 
earth  into  which  she  will  sink.  But  my  looks,  impelled 
by  superhuman  curiosity,  escape  between  my  fingers  to 
this  other  woman,  half  revealed  to  me  in  the  tumult  of 
sorrow,  and  my  eyes  cannot  come  out  of  her. 

Madame  Piot  has  changed  the  candles  and  attached 
a  band  to  support  the  dead  woman's  chin.  Framed  in 
this  napkin,  which  is  knotted  over  the  skull  in  her  woolly 


40  LIGHT 

gray  hair,  the  face  looks  like  a  hook-nosed  mask  of 
green  bronze,  with  a  vitrified  line  of  eyes;  the  knees 
make  two  sharp  summits  under  the  sheet;  one's  eyes 
run  along  the  thin  rods  of  the  shins  and  the  feet  lift  the 
linen  like  two  in-driven  nails. 

Slowly  Marie  prepares  to  go.  She  has  closed  the  neck 
of  her  dress  and  hidden  herself  in  her  cloak.  She  comes 
up  to  me,  sore-hearted,  and  with  her  tears  for  a  mo- 
ment quenched  she  smiles  at  me  without  speaking.  I 
half  rise,  my  hands  tremble  towards  her  smile  as  if  to 
touch  it,  above  the  past  and  the  dust  of  my  second 
mother. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  night,  when  the  dead  fire  is 
scattering  chilliness,  the  women  go  away  one  by  one. 
One  hour,  two  hours,  I  remain  alone.  I  pace  the  room 
in  one  direction  and  another,  then  I  look,  and  shiver. 
My  aunt  is  no  more.  There  is  only  left  of  her  some- 
thing indistinct,  struck  down,  of  subterranean  color,  and 
her  place  is  desolate.  Now,  close  to  her,  I  am  alone! 
Alone — magnified  by  my  affliction,  master  of  my  future, 
disturbed  and  numbed  by  the  newness  of  the  things  now 
beginning.  At  last  the  window  grows  pale,  the  ceiling 
turns  gray,  and  the  candle-flames  wink  in  the  first  traces 
of  light. 

I  shiver  without  end.  In  the  depth  of  my  dawn,  in 
the  heart  of  this  room  where  I  have  always  been,  I  re- 
call the  image  of  a  woman  who  filled  it — a  woman  stand- 
ing at  the  chimney-corner,  where  a  gladsome  fire  flames, 
and  she  is  garbed  in  reflected  purple,  her  corsage  scar- 
let, her  face  golden,  as  she  holds  to  the  glow  those  hands 
transparent  and  beautiful  as  flames.  In  the  darkness, 
from  my  vigil,  I  look  at  her. 

****** 

The  two  nights  which  followed  were  spent  in  mourn- 
ful motionlessness  at  the  back  of  that  room  where  the 


EVENING  AND  DAWN  41 

trembling  host  of  lights  seemed  to  give  animation  to 
dead  things.  During  the  two  days  various  activities 
brought  me  distraction,  at  first  distressing,  then  depress- 
ing. 

The  last  night  I  opened  my  aunt's  jewel  box.  It  was 
called  "the  little  box."  It  was  on  the  dressing  table, 
at  the  bottom  of  piled-up  litter.  I  found  some  topaz 
ear-rings  of  a  bygone  period,  a  gold  cross,  equally  out- 
distanced, small  and  slender — a  little  girl's,  or  a  young 
girl's;  and  then,  wrapped  in  tissue  paper,  like  a  relic, 
a  portrait  of  myself  when  a  child.  Last,  a  written  page, 
torn  from  one  of  my  old  school  copy-books,  which  she 
had  not  been  able  to  throw  wholly  away.  Transparent 
at  the  folds,  the  worn  sheet  was  fragile  as  lace,  and  gave 
the  illusion  of  being  equally  precious.  That  was  all  the 
treasure  my  aunt  had  collected.  That  jewel  box  held 
the  poverty  of  her  life  and  the  wealth  of  her  heart. 
****** 

It  poured  with  rain  on  the  day  of  the  funeral.  All 
the  morning  groups  of  people  succeeded  each  other  in 
the  big  cavern  of  our  room,  a  going  and  coming  of  sighs. 
My  aunt  was  laid  in  her  coffin  towards  two  o'clock,  and 
it  was  carried  then  into  the  passage,  where  visitors'  feet 
had  brought  dirt  and  puddles.  A  belated  wreath  was 
awaited,  and  then  the  umbrellas  opened,  and  under  their 
black  undulation  the  procession  moved  off. 

When  we  came  out  of  the  church  it  was  not  far  off 
four  o'clock.  The  rain  had  not  stopped  and  little  rivers 
dashed  down  from  either  side  of  the  procession's  slug- 
gish flow  along  the  street.  There  were  many  flowers,  so 
that  the  hearse  made  a  blot  of  relief,  beautiful  enough. 
There  were  many  people,  too,  and  I  turned  round  sev- 
eral times.  Always  I  saw  old  Eudo,  in  his  black  cowl, 
hopping  along  in  the  mud,  hunchbacked  as  a  crow. 
Marie  was  walking  among  some  women  in  the  second 
half  of  the  file,  whose  frail  and  streaming  roof  the  hearse 


$2  LIGHT 

drew  along  irregularly  with  jerks  and  halts.  Her  gait 
was  jaded;  she  was  thinking  only  of  our  sorrow  1  All 
things  darkened  again  to  my  eyes  in  the  ugliness  of  the 
evening. 

The  cemetery  is  full  of  mud  under  the  muslin  of 
fallen  rain,  and  the  footfalls  make  a  sticky  sound  in  it. 
There  are  a  few  trees,  naked  and  paralyzed.  The  sky 
is  marshy  and  sprinkled  with  crows. 

The  coffin,  with  its  shapeless  human  form,  is  lowered 
from  the  hearse  and  disappears  in  the  fresh  earth. 

They  march  past.  Marie  and  her  father  take  their 
places  beside  me.  I  say  thanks  to  every  one  in  the  same 
tone;  they  are  all  like  each  other,  with  their  gestures 
of  impotence,  their  dejected  faces,  the  words  they  get 
ready  and  pour  out  as  they  pass  before  me,  and  their 
dark  costume.  No  one  has  come  from  the  castle,  but 
in  spite  of  that  there  are  many  people  and  they  all 
converge  upon  me.  I  pluck  up  courage. 

Monsieur  Lucien  Gozlan  comes  forward,  calls  me 
"my  dear  sir,"  and  brings  me  the  condolences  of  his 
uncles,  while  the  rest  watch  us. 

Joseph  Boneas  says  "my  dear  friend"  to  me,  and 
that  affects  me  deeply.  Monsieur  Pocard  says,  "If  I 
had  been  advised  in  time  I  would  have  said  a  few  words. 
It  is  regrettable " 

Others  follow;  then  nothing  more  is  to  be  seen  in  the 
rain,  the  wind  and  the  gloom  but  backs. 

"It's  finished.    Let's  go." 

Marie  lifts  to  me  her  sorrow-laved  face.  She  is  sweet; 
she  is  affectionate;  she  is  unhappy;  but  she  does  not 
love  me. 

We  go  away  in  disorder,  along  by  the  trees  whose 
skeletons  the  winter  has  blackened. 

When  we  arrive  in  our  quarter,  twilight  has  invaded 
the  streets.  We  hear  gusts  of  talk  about  the  Pocard 
scheme.  Ah,  how  fiercely  people  live  and  seek  success! 


EVENING  AND  DAWN  43 

Little  Antoinette,  cautiously  feeling  her  way  by  a  big 
wall,  hears  us  pass.  She  stops  and  would  look  if  she 
could.  We  espy  her  figure  in  that  twilight  of  which  she 
is  beginning  to  make  a  part,  though  fine  and  faint  as  a 
pistil. 

"Poor  little  angel!"  says  a  woman,  as  she  goes  by. 

Marie  and  her  father  are  the  only  ones  left  near  me 
when  we  pass  Rampaille's  tavern.  Some  men  who  were 
at  the  funeral  are  sitting  at  tables  there,  black-clad. 

We  reach  my  home;  Marie  offers  me  her  hand,  and  we 
hesitate.  "Come  in." 

She  enters.  We  look  at  the  dead  room;  the  floor  is 
wet,  and  the  wind  blows  through  as  if  we  were  out  of 
doors.  Both  of  us  are  crying,  and  she  says,  "I  will 
come  to-morrow  and  tidy  up.  Till  then " 

We  take  each  other's  hand  in  confused  hesitation. 

#*##*# 

A  little  later  there  is  a  scraping  at  the  door,  then  a 
timid  knock,  and  a  long  figure  appears. 

It  is  Veron  who  presents  himself  with  an  awkward 
air.  His  tall  and  badly  jointed  body  swings  like  a  hang- 
ing signboard.  He  is  an  original  and  sentimental  soul, 
but  no  one  has  ever  troubled  to  find  out  what  he  is. 
He  begins,  "My  young  friend — hum,  hum "  (he  re- 
peats this  formless  sound  every  two  or  three  words,  like 
a  sort  of  clock  with  a  sonorous  tick) — "One  may  be 
wanting  money,  you  know,  for  something — hum,  hum; 
you  need  money,  perhaps — hum,  hum;  all  this  expense 
— and  I'd  said  to  myself  'I'll  take  him  some ' " 

He  scrutinizes  me  as  he  repeats,  "Hum,  hum."  I 
shake  his  hand  with  tears  in  my  eyes.  I  do  not  need 
money,  but  I  know  I  shall  never  forget  that  action;  so 
good,  so  supernatural. 

And  when  he  has  swung  himself  out,  abashed  by  my 
refusal,  embarrassed  by  the  unusual  size  of  his  legs  and 
his  heart,  I  sit  down  in  a  corner,  seized  with  shivering. 


44  LIGHT 

Then  I  obliterate  myself  in  another  corner,  equally  for- 
lorn. It  seems  as  if  Marie  has  gone  away  with  all  I 
have.  I  am  in  mourning  and  I  am  all  alone,  because  of 
her. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MARIE 

THE  seat  leans  against  the  gray  wall,  at  the  spot 
where  a  rose  tree  hangs  over  it,  and  the  lane  begins  to 
slope  to  the  river.  I  asked  Marie  to  come,  and  I  am 
waiting  for  her  in  the  evening. 

When  I  asked  her — in  sudden  decision  after  so  many 
days  of  hesitation — to  meet  me  here  this  evening,  she 
was  silent,  astonished.  But  she  did  not  refuse;  she  did 
not  answer.  Some  people  came  and  she  went  away.  I 
am  waiting  for  her,  after  that  prayer. 

Slowly  I  stroll  to  the  river  bank.  When  I  return 
some  one  is  on  the  seat,  enthroned  in  the  shadow.  The 
face  is  indistinct,  but  in  the  apparel  of  mourning  I  can 
see  the  neck-opening,  like  a  faint  pale  heart,  and  the 
misty  expansion  of  the  skirt.  Stooping,  I  hear  her  low 
voice,  "I've  come,  you  see."  And,  "Marie!"  I  say. 

I  sit  down  beside  her,  and  we  remain  silent.  She  is 
there — wholly.  Through  her  black  veils  I  can  make  out 
the  whiteness  of  her  face  and  neck  and  hands — all  her 
beauty,  like  light  enclosed. 

For  me  she  had  only  been  a  charming  picture,  a  pass- 
er-by, one  apart,  living  her  own  life.  Now  she  has 
listened  to  me;  she  has  come  at  my  call;  she  has  brought 
herself  here. 

The  day  has  been  scorching.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
afternoon  storm-rain  burst  over  the  world  and  then 
ceased.  One  can  still  hear  belated  drops  falling  from 

45 


46  LIGHT 

the  branches  which  overhang  the  wall.  The  air  is 
charged  with  odors  of  earth  and  leaves  and  flowers,  and 
wreaths  of  wind  go  heavily  by. 

She  is  the  first  to  speak;  she  speaks  of  one  thing  and 
another. 

I  do  not  know  what  she  is  saying;  I  draw  nearer  to 
see  her  lips;  I  answer  her,  "I  am  always  thinking  of 
you." 

Hearing  these  words,  she  is  silent.  Her  silence  grows 
greater  and  greater  in  the  shadows.  I  have  drawn  still 
nearer;  so  near  that  I  feel  on  my  cheek  the  wing-beat 
of  her  breath;  so  near  that  her  silence  caresses  me. 

Then,  to  keep  myself  in  countenance,  or  to  smoke, 
I  have  struck  a  match,  but  I  make  no  use  of  the  gleam 
at  my  finger-tips.  It  shows  me  Marie,  quivering  a  little; 
it  gilds  her  pale  face.  A  smile  arises  on  her  face;  I  have 
seen  her  full  of  that  smile. 

My  eyes  grow  dim  and  my  hands  tremble.  I  wish 
she  would  speak. 

"Tell  me "  Her  down-bent  neck  unfolds,  and  she 

lifts  her  head  to  speak.  At  that  moment,  by  the  light 
of  the  flame  that  I  hold,  whose  great  revealing  kindness 
I  am  guarding,  our  eyes  fall  on  an  inscription  scratched 
in  the  wall — a  heart — and  inside  it  two  initials,  H-S. 
Ah,  that  design  was  made  by  me  one  evening.  Little 
Helen  was  lolling  there  then,  and  I  thought  I  adored 
her.  For  a  moment  I  am  overpowered  by  this  appari- 
tion of  a  mistake,  bygone  and  forgotten.  Marie  does 
not  know;  but  seeing  those  initials,  and  divining  a  pres- 
ence between  us,  she  dare  not  speak. 

As  the  match  is  on  the  point  of  going  out  I  throw  it 
down.  The  little  flame's  last  flicker  has  lighted  up  for 
me  the  edge  of  the  poor  black  serge  skirt,  so  worn  that 
it  shines  a  little,  even  in  the  evening,  and  has  shown  me 
the  girl's  shoe.  There  is  a  hole  in  the  heel  of  the  stock- 
ing, and  we  have  both  seen  it.  In  quick  shame,  Marie 


MARIE  47 

draws  her  foot  under  her  skirt;  and  I — I  tremble  still 
more  that  my  eyes  have  touched  a  little  of  her  maiden 
flesh,  a  fragment  of  her  real  innocence. 

Gently  she  stands  up  in  the  grayness,  and  puts  an 
end  to  this  first  fate-changing  meeting. 

We  return.  The  obscurity  is  outstretched  all  around 
and  against  us.  Together  and  alone  we  go  into  the 
following  chambers  of  the  night.  My  eyes  follow  the 
sway  of  her  body  in  her  dress  against  the  vaguely  lu- 
minous background  of  the  wall.  Amid  the  night  her 
dress  is  night  also;  she  is  there — wholly!  There  is  a 
singing  in  my  ears;  an  anthem  fills  the  world. 

In  the  street,  where  there  are  no  more  wayfarers,  she 
walks  on  the  edge  of  the  causeway.  So  that  my  face 
may  be  on  a  level  with  hers,  I  walk  beside  her  in  the 
gutter,  and  the  cold  water  enters  my  boots. 

And  that  evening,  inflated  by  mad  longing,  I  am  so 
triumphantly  confident  that  I  do  not  even  remember  to 
shake  her  hand.  By  her  door  I  said  to  her,  "To-morrow," 
and  she  answered,  "Yes." 

On  one  of  the  days  which  followed,  finding  myself 
free  in  the  afternoon,  I  made  my  way  to  the  great  popu- 
lous building  of  flats  where  she  lives.  I  ascended  two 
dark  flights  of  steps,  closely  encaged,  and  followed  a  long 
elbowed  corridor.  Here  it  is.  I  knock  and  enter.  Com- 
plete silence  greets  me.  There  is  no  one,  and  acute  dis- 
appointment runs  through  me. 

I  take  some  hesitant  steps  in  the  tiny  vestibule,  which 
is  lighted  by  the  glass  door  to  the  kitchen,  wherein  I 
hear  the  drip  of  water.  I  see  a  room  whose  curtains 
invest  it  with  broidered  light.  There  is  a  bed  in  it,  with 
a  cover  of  sky-blue  satinette  shining  like  the  blue  of  a 
chromo.  It  is  Marie's  room!  Her  gray  silk  hat,  rose- 
trimmed,  hangs  from  a  nail  on  the  flowery  paper.  She 
has  not  worn  it  since  my  aunt's  death;  and  alongside 
hang  black  dresses.  I  enter  this  bright  blue  sanctuary, 


48  LIGHT 

inhabited  only  by  a  cold  and  snow-like  light,  and  orderly 
and  chaste  as  a  picture. 

My  hand  goes  out  like  a  thief's.  I  touch,  I  stroke  these 
dresses,  which  are  wont  to  touch  Marie.  I  turn  again 
to  the  blue-veiled  bed.  On  a  whatnot  there  are  books, 
and  their  titles  invite  me;  for  where  her  thoughts  dwell, 
the  things  which  occupy  her  mind — but  I  leave  them. 
I  would  rather  go  near  her  bed.  With  a  movement  at 
once  mad,  frightened  and  trembling,  I  lift  the  quilts 
that  clothe  it  and  my  gaze  enters  it,  and  my  knees  lean 
trembling  on  the  edge  of  this  great  lifeless  thing,  which, 

alone  among  dead  things,  is  one  of  soft  and  supple  flesh. 
****** 

My  customary  life  continues  and  my  work  is  always 
the  same.  I  make  notes,  by  the  way,  of  Crillon's  honest 
trivialities;  of  Brisbille's  untimely  outbursts;  of  the 
rumors  anent  the  Pocard  scheme,  and  the  progress  of 
the  Association  of  Avengers,  a  society  to  promote  na- 
tional awakening,  founded  by  Monsieur  Joseph  Boneas. 
The  same  complex  and  monotonous  existence  bears  me 
along  as  it  does  everybody.  But  since  that  tragic  night 
when  my  sorrow  was  transformed  into  joy  at  the  lyke- 
wake  in  the  old  room,  in  truth  the  world  is  no  longer 
what  it  was.  People  and  things  appear  to  me  shadowy 
and  distant  when  I  go  out  into  the  current  of  the  crowds; 
when  I  am  dressing  in  my  room  and  decide  that  I  look 
well  in  black;  when  I  sit  up  late  at  my  table  in  the  sun- 
shine of  hope.  Now  and  again  the  memory  of  my  aunt 
comes  bodily  back  to  me.  Sometimes  I  hear  people  pro- 
nounce the  name  of  Marie.  My  body  starts  when  it 
hears  them  say  "Marie,"  who  know  not  what  they  say. 
And  there  are  moments  when  our  separation  throbs  so 
warmly  that  I  do  not  know  whether  she  is  here  or  absent. 
****** 

During  this  walk  that  we  have  just  had  together  the 
summer  and  the  sweetness  of  living  have  weighed  more 


MARIE  49 

than  ever  on  my  shoulders.  Her  huge  home,  which  is 
such  a  swarming  hive  at  certain  times,  is  now  immensely 
empty  in  the  labyrinth  of  its  dark  stairs  and  the  land- 
ings, whence  issue  the  narrow  closed  streets  of  its  cor- 
ridors, and  where  in  the  corners  taps  drip  upon  drain- 
stones.  Our  immense — our  naked  solitude  pervades  us. 
An  exquisite  emotion  takes  hold  of  me  while  we  are 
slowly  climbing  the  steep  and  methodical  way.  There 
is  something  human  in  the  stairway;  in  the  inevitable 
shapes  of  its  spiral  and  its  steps  cut  out  of  the  quick, 
in  the  rhythmic  repetition  of  its  steps.  A  round  sky- 
light pierces  the  sloping  roof  up  there,  and  it  is  the  only 
light  for  this  part  of  the  people's  house,  this  poor  inter- 
nal city.  The  darkness  which  runs  down  the  walls  of 
the  well,  whence  we  are  striving  to  emerge  step  by  step, 
conceals  our  laborious  climb  towards  that  gap  of  day- 
light. Shadowed  and  secret  as  we  are,  it  seems  to  me 
that  we  are  mounting  to  heaven. 

Oppressed  by  a  common  languor,  we  at  last  sat  down 
side  by  side  on  a  step.  There  is  no  sound  in  the  build- 
ing under  the  one  round  window  bending  over  us.  We 
lean  on  each  other  because  of  the  stair's  narrowness. 
Her  warmth  enters  into  me;  I  feel  myself  agitated  by 
that  obscure  light  which  radiates  from  her.  I  share  with 
her  the  heat  of  her  body  and  her  thought  itself.  The 
darkness  deepens  round  us.  Hardly  can  I  see  the  crouch- 
ing girl  there,  warm  and  hollowed  like  a  nest. 

I  call  her  by  her  name,  very  quietly,  and  it  is  as 
though  I  made  a  loud  avowal!  She  turns,  and  it  seems 
that  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  seen  her  naked  face. 
"Kiss  me,"  she  says;  and  without  speaking  we  stammer, 
and  murmur,  and  laugh. 

****** 

Together  we  are  looking  at  a  little  square  piece  of 
paper.  I  found  it  on  the  seat  which  the  rose-tree  over- 
hangs on  the  edge  of  the  downward  lane.  Carefully 


50  LIGHT 

folded,  it  had  a  forgotten  look,  and  it  was  waiting  there, 
detained  for  a  moment  by  its  timorous  weight.  A  few 
lines  of  careful  writing  cover  it.  We  read  it: 

"I  do  not  know  how  speaks  the  pious  heart;  nothing  I 
know ;  th'  enraptured  martyr  I.  Only  I  know  the  tears  that 
brimming  start,  your  beauty  blended  with  your  smile  to  espy." 

Then,  having  read  it,  we  read  it  again,  moved  by  a 
mysterious  influence.  And  we  finger  the  chance-cap- 
tured paper,  without  knowing  what  it  is,  without  under- 
standing very  well  what  it  says. 

****** 

When  I  asked  her  to  go  with  me  to  the  cemetery  that 
Sunday,  she  agreed,  as  she  does  to  all  I  ask  her.  I 
watched  her  arms  brush  the  roses  as  she  came  in  through 
the  gardens.  We  walked  in  silence;  more  and  more  we 
are  losing  the  habit  of  talking  to  each  other.  We  looked 
at  the  latticed  and  flower-decked  square  where  our  aunt 
sleeps — the  garden  which  is  only  as  big  as  a  woman. 
Returning  from  the  cemetery  by  way  of  the  fields,  the 
sun  already  low,  we  join  hands,  seized  with  triumphant 
delight. 

She  is  wearing  a  dress  of  black  delaine,  and  the  skirt, 
the  sleeves  and  the  collar  wave  in  the  breeze.  Some- 
times she  turns  her  radiant  face  to  me  and  it  seems  to 
grow  still  brighter  when  she  looks  at  me.  Slightly  stoop- 
ing, she  walks,  though  among  the  grass  and  flowers  whose 
tints  and  grace  shine  in  reflection  on  her  forehead  and 
cheeks,  she  is  a  giantess.  A  butterfly  precedes  us  on  our 
path  and  alights  under  our  eyes,  but  when  we  come  up  it 
takes  wing  again,  and  comes  down  a  little  farther  and 
begins  all  over  again;  and  we  smile  at  the  butterfly  that 
thinks  of  us. 

Inlaid  with  gold  by  the  slanting  sun  we  lead  each 
other,  hand  in  hand,  as  far  as  the  statue  of  Flora,  which 
once  upon  a  time  a  lord  of  the  manor  raised  on  the  fringe 


MARIE  51 

of  the  wood.  Against  the  abiding  background  of  dis- 
tant heights  the  goddess  stands,  half-naked,  in  the  beau- 
tiful ripe  light.  Her  fair  hips  are  draped  with  a  veil  of 
still  whiter  stone,  like  a  linen  garment.  Before  the  old 
moss-mellowed  pedestal  I  pressed  Marie  desperately  to 
my  heart.  Then,  in  the  sacred  solitude  of  the  wood,  I 
put  my  hands  upon  her,  and  so  that  she  might  be  like 
the  goddess  I  unfastened  her  black  bodice,  lowered  the 
ribbon  shoulder-straps  of  her  chemise,  and  laid  bare  her 
wide  and  rounded  bosom. 

She  yielded  to  the  adoration  with  lowered  head,  and 
her  eyes  magnificently  troubled,  red-flushing  with  blood 
and  sunshine. 

I  put  my  lips  on  hers.  Until  that  day,  whenever 
I  kissed  her,  her  lips  submitted.  This  time  she  gave 
me  back  my  long  caress,  and  even  her  eyes  closed 
upon  it.  Then  she  stands  there  with  her  hands  crossed 
on  her  glorious  throat,  her  red,  wet  lips  ajar.  She 
stands  there,  apart,  yet  united  to  me,  and  her  heart 
on  her  lips. 

She  has  covered  her  bosom  again.  The  breeze  is 
suddenly  gusty.  The  apple  trees  in  the  orchards  are 
shaken  and  scatter  bird-like  jetsam  in  space;  and  in 
that  bright  green  paddock  yonder  the  rows  of  out-hung 
linen  dance  in  the  sunshine.  The  sky  darkens;  the  wind 
rises  and  prevails.  It  was  that  very  day  of  the  gale. 
It  assaults  our  two  bodies  on  the  flank  of  the  hill;  it 
comes  out  of  infinity  and  sets  roaring  the  tawny  forest 
foliage.  We  can  see  its  agitation  behind  the  black 
grille  of  the  trunks.  It  makes  us  dizzy  to  watch  the 
swift  displacement  of  the  gray-veiled  sky,  and  from 
cloud  to  cloud  a  bird  seems  hurled,  like  a  stone.  We 
go  down  towards  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  clinging  to 
the  slope,  an  offering  to  the  deepest  breath  of  heaven, 
driven  forward  yet  holding  each  other  back. 
.  So,  gorged  with  the  gale  and  deafened  by  the  uni- 


52  LIGHT 

versal  concert  of  space  that  goes  through  our  ears,  we 
find  sanctuary  on  the  river  bank.  The  water  flows  be- 
tween trees  whose  highest  foliage  is  intermingled.  By 
a  dark  footpath,  soft  and  damp,  under  the  ogive  of  the 
branches,  we  follow  this  crystal-paved  cloister  of  green 
shadow.  We  come  on  a  flat-bottomed  boat,  used  by 
the  anglers.  I  make  Marie  enter  it,  and  it  yields  and 
groans  under  her  weight.  By  the  strokes  of  two  old 
oars  we  descend  the  current. 

It  seems  to  our  hearts  and  our  inventing  eyes  that 
the  banks  take  flight  on  either  side — it  is  the  scenery 
of  bushes  and  trees  which  retreats.  We — we  abide! 
But  the  boat  grounds  among  tall  reeds.  Marie  is  half 
reclining  and  does  not  speak.  I  draw  myself  towards 
her  on  my  knees,  and  the  boat  quivers  as  I  do.  Her 
face  in  silence  calls  me;  she  calls  me  wholly.  With  her 
prostrate  body,  surrendered  and  disordered,  she  calls 
me. 

I  possess  her — she  is  mine!  In  sublime  docility  she 
yields  to  my  violent  caress.  Now  she  is  mine — mine  for- 
ever! Henceforth  let  what  may  befall;  let  the  years 
go  by  and  the  winters  follow  the  summers,  she  is  mine, 
and  my  life  is  granted  me!  Proudly  I  think  of  the 
great  and  famous  lovers  whom  we  resemble.  I  per- 
ceive that  there  is  no  recognized  law  which  can  stand 
against  the  might  of  love.  And  under  the  transient 
wing  of  the  foliage,  amid  the  continuous  recessional  of 
heaven  and  earth,  we  repeat  "never";  we  repeat  "al- 
ways"; and  we  proclaim  it  to  eternity. 

****** 

The  leaves  are  falling;  the  year  draws  near  to  its  end; 
the  wedding  is  arranged  to  take  place  about  Christmas. 

That  decision  was  mine;  Marie  said  "yes,"  as  usual, 
and  her  father,  absorbed  all  the  day  in  figures,  would 
emerge  from  them  at  night,  like  a  shipwrecked  man, 


MARIE  53 

seeing  darkly,  passive,  except  on  rare  occasions  when 
he  had  fits  of  mad  obstinacy,  and  no  one  knew  why. 

In  the  early  morning  sometimes,  when  I  was  climbing 
Chestnut  Hill  on  my  way  to  work,  Marie  would  appear 
before  me  at  a  corner,  in  the  pale  and  blushing  dawn. 
We  would  walk  on  together,  bathed  in  those  fresh  fires, 
and  would  watch  the  town  at  our  feet  rising  again  from 
its  ashes.  Or,  on  my  way  back,  she  would  suddenly  be 
there,  and  we  would  walk  side  by  side  towards  her 
home.  We  loved  each  other  too  much  to  be  able  to 
talk.  A  very  few  words  we  exchanged  just  to  entwine 
our  voices,  and  in  speaking  of  other  people  we  smiled 
at  each  other. 

One  day,  about  that  time,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  of 
Monthyon  had  the  kindly  thought  of  asking  us  both  to 
an  evening  party  at  the  castle,  with  several  leading  peo- 
ple of  our  quarter.  When  all  the  guests  were  gathered 
in  a  huge  gallery,  adorned  with  busts  which  sat  in  state 
between  high  curtains  of  red  damask,  the  Marquis  took 
it  into  his  head  to  cut  off  the  electricity.  In  a  lordly 
way  he  liked  heavy  practical  jokes — I  was  just  smiling 
at  Marie,  who  was  standing  near  me  in  the  middle  of 
the  crowded  gallery,  when  suddenly  it  was  dark.  I  put 
out  my  arms  and  drew  her  to  me.  She  responded  with 
a  spirit  she  had  not  shown  before,  our  lips  met  more 
passionately  than  ever,  and  our  single  body  swayed 
among  the  invisible,  ejaculating  throng  that  elbowed  and 
jostled  us.  The  light  flashed  again.  We  had  loosed 
our  hold.  Ah,  it  was  not  Marie  whom  I  had  clasped! 
The  woman  fled  with  a  stifled  exclamation  of  shame  and 
indignation  towards  him  who  she  believed  had  embraced 
her,  and  who  had  seen  nothing.  Confused,  and  as 
though  still  blind,  I  rejoined  Marie,  but  I  was  myself 
again  with  difficulty.  In  spite  of  all,  that  kiss  which 
had  suddenly  brought  me  in  naked  contact  with  a 
complete  stranger  remained  to  me  an  extraordinary  and 


54  LIGHT 

infernal  delight.  Afterwards,  I  thought  I  recognized 
the  woman  by  her  blue  dress,  half  seen  at  the  same  time 
as  the  gleam  of  her  neck  after  that  brief  and  dazzling 
incident.  But  there  were  three  of  them  somewhat  alike. 
I  never  knew  which  of  those  unknown  women  concealed 
within  her  flesh  the  half  of  the  thrill  that  I  could  not 

shake  off  all  the  evening. 

****** 

There  was  a  large  gathering  at  the  wedding.  The 
Marquis  and  Marchioness  of  Monthyon  appeared  at  the 
sacristy.  Brisbille,  by  good  luck,  stayed  away.  Good 
sectarian  that  he  was,  he  only  acknowledged  civil  mar- 
riages. I  was  a  little  shamefaced  to  see  march  past, 
taking  their  share  of  the  fine  and  tranquil  smile  dis- 
tributed by  Marie,  some  women  who  had  formerly  been 
my  mistresses — Madame  Lacaille,  nervous,  subtle,  mysti- 
cal; big  Victorine  and  her  good-natured  rotundity,  who 
had  welcomed  me  any  time  and  anywhere;  and  Ma- 
deleine Chaine;  and  slender  Antonia  above  all,  with  the 
Italian  woman's  ardent  and  theatrical  face,  ebony- 
framed,  and  wearing  a  hat  of  Parisian  splendor.  For 
Antonia  is  very  elegant  since  she  married  Veron.  I 
could  not  help  wincing  when  I  saw  that  lanky  woman, 
who  had  clung  to  me  in  venturesome  rooms,  now  assidu- 
ous around  us  in  her  ceremonious  attire.  But  how  far 
off  and  obliterated  all  that  wasl 


CHAPTER  V 

DAY  BY  DAY 

WE  rearranged  the  house.  We  did  not  alter  the  gen- 
eral arrangement,  nor  the  places  of  the  heavy  furni- 
ture— that  would  have  been  too  great  a  change.  But 
we  cast  out  all  the  dusty  old  stuff,  the  fossilized  and 
worthless  knick-knacks  that  Mame  had  accumulated. 
The  photographs  on  the  walls,  which  were  dying  of 
jaundice  and  debility,  and  which  no  longer  stood  for 
anybody,  because  of  the  greatness  of  time,  we  cleared 
out  of  their  imitation  tortoiseshell  and  buried  in  the 
depths  of  drawers. 

I  bought  some  furniture,  and  as  we  sniffed  the  odor 
of  varnish  which  hung  about  for  a  long  time  in  the 
lower  room,  we  said,  "This  is  the  real  thing."  And, 
indeed,  our  home  was  pretty  much  like  the  middle-class 
establishments  of  our  quarter  and  everywhere.  Is  it 
not  the  only  really  proud  moment  here  on  earth,  when 
we  can  say,  "I,  too!" 

Years  went  by.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  in 
our  life.  When  I  came  home  in  the  evening,  Marie, 
who  often  had  not  been  out  and  had  kept  on  her  dress- 
ing-gown and  plaits,  used  to  say,  "There's  been  nothing 
to  speak  of  to-day." 

The  aeroplanes  were  appearing  at  that  time.  We 
talked  about  them,  and  saw  photographs  of  them  in 
the  papers.  One  Sunday  we  saw  one  from  our  window. 
We  had  heard  the  chopped-up  noise  of  its  engine  ex- 
panding over  the  sky;  and  down  below,  the  townsfolk 

55 


56  LIGHT 

on  their  doorsteps,  raised  their  heads  towards  the  ceiling 
of  their  streets.  Rattling  space  was  marked  with  a 
dot.  We  kept  our  eyes  on  it  and  saw  the  great  flat 
and  noisy  insect  grow  bigger  and  bigger,  silhouetting  the 
black  of  its  angles  and  partitioned  lines  against  the  airy 
wadding  of  the  clouds.  When  its  headlong  flight  had 
passed,  when  it  had  dwindled  in  our  eyes  and  ears 
amid  the  new  world  of  sounds,  which  it  drew  in  its 
train,  Marie  sighed  dreamily. 

"I  would  like,"  she  said,  "to  go  up  in  an  aeroplane, 
into  the  wind — into  the  sky!" 

One  spring  we  talked  a  lot  about  a  trip  we  would 
take  some  day.  Some  railway  posters  had  been  stuck 
on  the  walls  of  the  old  tin  works,  that  the  Pocard  scheme 
was  going  to  transfigure.  We  looked  at  them  the  day 
they  were  freshly  brilliant  in  their  wet  varnish  and 
their  smell  of  paste.  We  preferred  the  bill  about  Cor- 
sica, which  showed  seaside  landscapes,  harbors  with  pic- 
turesque people  in  the  foreground  and  a  purple  moun- 
tain behind,  all  among  garlands.  And  later,  even  when 
stiffened  and  torn  and  cracking  in  the  wind,  that  poster 
attracted  us. 

One  evening,  in  the  kitchen,  when  we  had  just  come 
in — there  are  memories  which  mysteriously  outlive  the 
rest — and  Marie  was  lighting  the  fire,  with  her  hat  on 
and  her  hands  wiped  out  in  the  twilight  by  the  grime  of 
the  coal,  she  said,  "We'll  make  that  trip  later!" 

Sometimes  it  happened  that  we  went  out,  she  and  I, 
during  the  week.  I  looked  about  me  and  shared  my 
thoughts  with  her.  Never  very  talkative,  she  would 
listen  to  me.  Coming  out  of  the  Place  de  1'Eglise,  which 
used  to  affect  us  so  much  not  long  ago,  we  often  used 
to  meet  Jean  and  Genevieve  Trompson,  near  the  sunken 
post  where  an  old  jam  pot  lies  on  the  ground.  Every- 
body used  to  say  of  these  two,  "They'll  separate,  you'll 
see;  that's  what  comes  of  loving  each  other  too  much; 


DAY  BY  DAY  57 

it  was  madness,  I  always  said  so."  And  hearing  these 
things,  unfortunately  true,  Marie  would  murmur,  with 
a  sort  of  obstinate  gentleness,  "Love  is  sacred." 

Returning,  not  far  from  the  anachronistic  and  clan- 
destine Eudo's  lair,  we  used  to  hear  the  coughing  par- 
rot. That  old  bird,  worn  threadbare,  and  of  a  faded 
green  hue,  never  ceased  to  imitate  the  fits  of  coughing 
which  two  years  before  had  torn  Adolphe  Piot's  lungs, 
who  died  in  the  midst  of  his  family  under  such  sad  cir- 
cumstances. Those  days  we  would  return  with  our 
ears  full  of  the  obstinate  clamor  of  that  recording  bird, 
which  had  set  itself  fiercely  to  immortalize  the  noise  that 
passed  for  a  moment  through  the  world,  and  toss  the 
echoes  of  an  ancient  calamity,  of  which  everybody  had 
ceased  to  think. 

Almost  the  only  people  about  us  are  Marthe,  my  lit- 
tle sister-in-law,  who  is  six  years  old,  and  resembles  her 
sister  like  a  surprising  miniature;  my  father-in-law,  who 
is  gradually  annihilating  himself;  and  Crillon.  This 
last  lives  always  contented  in  the  same  shop  while  time 
goes  by,  like  his  father  and  his  grandfather,  and  the 
cobbler  of  the  fable,  his  eternal  ancestor.  Under  his 
square  cap,  on  the  edge  of  his  glazed  niche,  he  solilo- 
quizes, while  he  smokes  the  short  and  juicy  pipe  which 
joins  him  in  talking  and  spitting — indeed,  he  seems  to 
be  answering  it.  A  lonely  toiler,  his  lot  is  increasingly 
hard,  and  almost  worthless.  He  often  comes  in  to  us 
to  do  little  jobs — mend  a  table  leg,  re-seat  a  chair,  re- 
place a  tile.  Then  he  says,  "There's  summat  I  must  tell 
you " 

So  he  retails  the  gossip  of  the  district,  for  it  is  against 
his  conscience,  as  he  frankly  avows,  to  conceal  what 
he  knows.  And  Heaven  knows,  there  is  gossip  enough 
in  our  quarter! — a  complete  network,  above  and  below, 
of  quarrels,  intrigues  and  deceptions,  woven  around  man, 


58  LIGHT 

woman  and  the  public  in  general.  One  says,  "It  can't 
be  true!"  and  then  thinks  about  something  else. 

And  Crillon,  in  face  of  all  this  perversity,  all  this 
wrong-doing,  smiles!  I  like  to  see  that  happy  smile  of 
innocence  on  the  lowly  worker's  face.  He  is  better 
than  I,  and  he  even  understands  life  better,  with  his 
unfailing  good  sense. 

I  say  to  him,  "But  are  there  not  any  bad  customs 
and  vices?  Alcoholism,  for  instance?" 

"Yes,"  says  Crillon,  "as  long  as  you  don't  exarrergate 
it.  I  don't  like  exarrergations,  and  I  find  as  much  of 
it  among  the  pestimists  as  among  the  opticions.  Drink, 
you  say!  It's  chiefly  that  folks  haven't  enough  chari- 
tableness, mind  you.  They  blame  all  these  poor  devils 
that  drink  and  they  think  themselves  clever!  And 
they're  envious,  too;  if  they  wasn't  that,  tell  me,  would 
they  stand  there  in  stony  peterified  silence  before  the 
underhand  goings-on  of  bigger  folks?  That's  what  it  is, 
at  bottom  of  us.  Let  me  tell  you  now.  I'll  say  nothing 
against  Termite,  though  he's  a  poacher,  and  for  the 
castle  folks  that's  worse  than  all,  but  if  yon  bandit  of 
a  Brisbille  weren't  the  anarchist  he  is  and  frightening 
everybody,  I'd  excuse  him  his  dirty  nose  and  even  not 
taking  it  out  of  a  pint  pot  all  the  week  through.  It 
isn't  a  crime,  isn't  only  being  a  good  boozer.  We've 
got  to  look  ahead  and  have  a  broad  spirit,  as  Mon- 
sieur Joseph  says.  Tolerantness!  We  all  want  it,  eh?" 

"You're  a  good  sort,"  I  say. 

"I'm  a  man,  like  everybody,"  proudly  replies  Crillon. 
"It's  not  that  I  hold  by  accustomary  ideas;  I'm  not  an 
antiquitary,  but  I  don't  like  to  single-arise  myself.  If 
I'm  a  botcher  in  life,  it's  cos  I'm  the  same  as  others — 
no  less,"  he  says,  straightening  up.  And  standing  still 
more  erect,  he  adds,  "Nor  no  more,  neitherl" 

When  we  are  not  chatting  we  read  aloud.  There  is 
a  very  fine  library  at  the  factory,  selected  by  Madame 


DAY  BY  DAY  59 

Valentine  Gozlan  from  works  of  an  educational  or  moral 
kind,  for  the  use  of*  the  staff.  Marie,  whose  imagina- 
tion goes  further  afield  than  mine,  and  who  has  not  my 
anxieties,  directs  the  reading.  She  opens  a  book  and 
reads  aloud  while  I  take  my  ease,  looking  at  the  pastel 
portrait  which  hangs  just  opposite  the  window.  On  the 
glass  which  entombs  the  picture  I  see  the  gently  moving 
and  puffing  reflection  of  the  fidgety  window  curtains,  and 
the  face  of  that  glazed  portrait  becomes  blurred  with 
broken  streaks  and  all  kinds  of  wave  marks. 

"Ah,  these  adventures!"  Marie  sometimes  sighs,  at 
the  end  of  a  chapter;  "these  things  that  never  happen!" 

"Thank  Heaven,"  I  cry. 

"Alas,"  she  replies. 

Even  when  people  live  together  they  differ  more  than 
they  think! 

At  other  times  Marie  reads  to  herself,  quite  silently. 
I  surprise  her  absorbed  in  this  occupation.  It  even  hap- 
pens that  she  applies  herself  thus  to  poetry.  In  her  set 
and  stooping  face  her  eyes  come  and  go  over  the  ab- 
breviated lines  of  the  verses.  From  time  to  time  she 
raises  them  and  looks  up  at  the  sky,  and — vastly  fur- 
ther than  the  visible  sky — at  all  that  escapes  from  the 
little  cage  of  words. 

And  sometimes  we  are  lightly  touched  with  boredom. 
****** 

One  evening  Marie  informed  me  that  the  canary  was 
dead,  and  she  began  to  cry,  as  she  showed  me  the  open 
cage  and  the  bird  which  lay  at  the  bottom,  with  its 
feet  curled  up,  as  rumpled  and  stark  as  the  little  yellow 
plaything  of  a  doll.  I  sympathized  with  her  sorrow; 
but  her  tears  were  endless,  and  I  found  her  emotion 
disproportionate. 

"Come  now,"  I  said,  "after  all,  a  bird's  only  a  bird, 
a  mere  point  that  moved  a  little  in  a  corner  of  the 
room.  What  then?  What  about  the  thousands  of  birds 


60  LIGHT 

that  die,  and  the  people  that  die,  and  the  poor?"  But 
she  shook  her  head,  insisted  on  grieving,  tried  to  prove 
to  me  that  it  was  momentous  and  that  she  was  right. 

For  a  moment  I  stood  bewildered  by  this  want  of 
understanding;  this  difference  between  her  way  of  feel- 
ing and  mine.  It  was  a  disagreeable  revelation  of  the 
unknown.  One  might  often,  in  regard  to  small  matters, 
make  a  multitude  of  reflections  if  one  wished;  but  one 
does  not 'wish. 

****** 

My  position  at  the  factory  and  in  our  quarter  is 
becoming  gradually  stronger.  By  reason  of  a  regular 
gratuity  which  I  received,  we  are  at  last  able  to  put 
money  aside  each  month,  like  everybody. 

"I  say!"  cried  Crillon,  pulling  me  outside  with  him, 
as  I  was  coming  in  one  evening;  "I  must  let  you  know 
that  you've  been  spoken  of  spontanially  for  the  Town 
Council  at  the  next  renewment.  They're  making  a  big 
effort,  you  know.  Monsieur  the  Marquis  is  going  to 
stand  for  the  legislative  elections — but  we've  walked  into 
the  other  quarter,"  said  Crillon,  stopping  dead.  "Come 
back,  come  back." 

We  turned  right-about-face. 

"This  patriotic  society  of  Monsieur  Joseph,"  Crillon 
went  on,  "has  done  a  lot  of  harm  to  the  anarchists. 
We've  all  got  to  let  'em  feel  our  elbows,  that's  necessen- 
tial.  You've  got  a  foot  in  the  factory,  eh?  You  see 
the  workmen;  have  a  crack  of  talk  with  'em.  You  in- 
greasiate  yourself  with  'em,  so's  some  of  'emll  vote  for 
you.  For  them's  the  danger." 

"It's  true  that  I  am  very  sympathetic  to  them,"  I 
murmured,  impressed  by  this  prospect. 

Crillon  came  to  a  stand  in  front  of  the  Public  Baths. 
"It's  the  seventeenth  to-day,"  he  explained;  "the  day 
of  the  month  when  I  takes  a  bath.  Oh,  yes!  I  know 
that  you  go  every  Thursday;  but  I'm  not  of  that  mind. 


DAY  BY  DAY  61 

You're  young,  of  course,  and  p'raps  you  have  good  rea- 
son! But  you  take  my  tip,  and  hobnob  with  the  work- 
ing man.  We  must  bestir  ourselves  and  impell  ourselves, 
what  the  devil!  As  for  me,  I've  finished  my  political 
efforts  for  peace  and  order.  It's  your  turn!" 

He  is  right.  Looking  at  the  ageing  man,  I  note  that 
his  framework  is  slightly  bowed;  that  his  ill-shaven 
cheeks  are  humpbacked  with  little  ends  of  hair  turning 
into  white  crystals.  In  his  lowly  sphere  he  has  done 
his  duty.  I  reflect  upon  the  mite-like  efforts  of  the  un- 
important people;  of  the  mountains  of  tasks  performed 
by  anonymity.  They  are  necessary,  these  hosts  of 
people  so  closely  resembling  each  other;  for  cities  are 
built  upon  the  poor  brotherhood  of  paving-stones. 

He  is  right,  as  always.  I,  who  am  still  young;  I,  who 
am  on  a  higher  level  than  his;  I  must  play  a  part,  and 
subdue  the  desire  one  has  to  let  things  go  on  as  they 
may. 

A  sudden  movement  of  will  appears  in  my  life,  which 
otherwise  proceeds  as  usual. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  VOICE   IN  THE  EVENING 

I  APPROACHED  the  workpeople  with  all  possible  sym- 
pathy. The  toiler's  lot,  moreover,  raises  interesting 
problems,  which  one  should  seek  to  understand.  So  I 
inform  myself  in  the  matter  of  those  around  me. 

"You  want  to  see  the  greasers'  work?  Here  I  am," 
said  Marcassin,  surnamed  Petrolus.  "I'm  the  lamp- 
man.  Before  that  I  was  a  greaser.  Is  that  any  better? 
Can't  say.  It's  here  that  that  goes  on,  look — there. 
My  place  you'll  find  at  night  by  letting  your  nose  guide 
you." 

The  truth  is  that  the  corner  of  the  factory  to  which 
he  leads  me  has  an  aggressive  smell.  The  shapeless 
walls  of  this  sort  of  grotto  are  adorned  with  shelves  full 
of  leaking  lamps — lamps  dirty  as  beasts.  In  a  bucket 
there  are  old  wicks  and  other  departed  things.  At  the 
foot  of  a  wooden  cupboard  which  looks  like  iron  are 
lamp  glasses  in  paper  shirts;  and  farther  away,  groups 
of  oil-drums.  All  is  dilapidated  and  ruinous;  all  is  dark 
in  this  angle  of  the  great  building  where  light  is  elabo- 
rated. The  specter  of  a  huge  window  stands  yonder. 
The  panes  only  half  appear;  so  encrusted  are  they  they 
might  be  covered  with  yellow  paper.  The  great  stones 
— the  rocks — of  the  walls  are  upholstered  with  a  dark 
deposit  of  grease,  like  the  bottom  of  a  stewpan,  and 
nests  of  dust  hang  from  them.  Black  puddles  gleam  on 
the  floor,  with  beds  of  slime  from  the  scraping  of  the 
lamps. 

62 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  EVENING         63 

There  he  lives  and  moves,  in  his  armored  tunic  en- 
crusted with  filth  as  dark  as  coffee-grounds.  In  his  poor 
claw  he  grips  the  chief  implement  of  his  work — a  black 
rag.  His  grimy  hands  shine  with  paraffin,  and  the  oil, 
sunk  and  blackened  in  his  nails,  gives  them  a  look  of 
wick  ends.  All  day  long  he  cleans  lamps,  and  repairs, 
and  unscrews,  and  fills,  and  wipes  them.  The  dirt  and 
the  darkness  of  this  population  of  appliances  he  attracts 
to  himself,  and  he  works  like  a  nigger. 

"For  it's  got  to  be  well  done,"  he  says,  "and  even 
when  you're  fagged  out,  you  must  keep  on  rubbing 
hard." 

"There's  six  hundred  and  sixty-three,  monsieur"  (he 
says  "monsieur"  as  soon  as  he  embarks  on  technical  ex- 
planations), "counting  the  smart  ones  in  the  fine  offices 
and  the  lanterns  in  the  wood-yard,  and  the  night  watch- 
men. You'll  say  to  me,  'Why  don't  they  have  electric- 
ity that  lights  itself?'  It's  'cos  that  costs  money  and 
they  get  paraffin  for  next  to  nothing,  it  seems,  through 
a  big  firm  'at  they're  in  with  up  yonder.  As  for  me, 
I'm  always  on  my  legs,  from  the  morning  when  I'm  tired 
through  sleeping  badly,  from  after  dinner  when  you 
feel  sick  with  eating,  up  to  the  evening,  when  you're 
sick  of  everything." 

The  bell  has  rung,  and  we  go  away  in  company. 
He  has  pulled  off  his  blue  trousers  and  tunic  and  thrown 
them  into  a  corner — two  objects  which  have  grown  heavy 
and  rusty,  like  tools.  But  the  dirty  shell  of  his  toil  did 
upholster  him  a  little,  and  he  emerges  from  it  gaunter, 
and  horribly  squeezed  within  the  littleness  of  a  torturing 
jacket.  His  bony  legs,  in  trousers  too  wide  and  too 
short,  break  off  at  the  bottom  in  long  and  mournful 
shoes,  with  hillocks,  and  resembling  crocodiles;  and 
their  soles,  being  soaked  in  paraffin,  leave  oily  footprints, 
rainbow-hued,  in  the  plastic  mud. 

Perhaps  it  is  because  of  this  dismal  companion  to- 


64  LIGHT 

wards  whom  I  turn  my  head,  and  whom  I  see  trotting 
slowly  and  painfully  at  my  side  in  the  rumbling  gray- 
ness  of  the  evening  exodus,  that  I  have  a  sudden  and 
tragic  vision  of  the  people,  as  in  a  flash's  passing.  (I  do 
sometimes  get  glimpses  of  the  things  of  life  momen- 
tarily.) The  dark  doorway  to  my  vision  seems  torn 
asunder.  Between  these  two  phantoms  in  front  the 
sable  swarm  outspreads.  The  multitude  encumbers  the 
plain  that  bristles  with  dark  chimneys  and  cranes,  with 
ladders  of  iron  planted  black  and  vertical  in  nakedness 
— a  plain  vaguely  scribbled  with  geometrical  lines,  rails 
and  cinder  paths — a  plain  utilized  yet  barren.  In  some 
places  about  the  approaches  to  the  factory  cartloads  of 
clinker  and  cinders  have  been  dumped,  and  some  of  it 
continues  to  burn  like  pyres,  throwing  off  dark  flames 
and  darker  curtains.  Higher,  the  hazy  clouds  vomited 
by  the  tall  chimneys  come  together  in  broad  mountains 
whose  foundations  brush  the  ground  and  cover  the  land 
with  a  stormy  sky.  In  the  depths  of  these  clouds  hu- 
manity is  let  loose.  The  immense  expanse  of  men  moves 
and  shouts  and  rolls  in  the  same  course  all  through  the 
suburb.  An  inexhaustible  echo  of  cries  surrounds  us; 
it  is  like  hell  in  eruption  and  begirt  by  bronze  horizons. 

At  that  moment  I  am  afraid  of  the  multitude.  It 
brings  something  limitless  into  being,  something  which 
surpasses  and  threatens  us;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  he 
who  is  not  with  it  will  one  day  be  trodden  underfoot. 

My  head  goes  down  in  thought.  I  walk  close  to  Mar- 
cassin,  who  gives  me  the  impression  of  an  escaping 
animal,  hopping  through  the  darkness — whether  because 
of  his  name,1  or  his  stench,  I  do  not  know.  The  even- 
ning  is  darkening;  the  wind  is  tearing  leaves  away;  it 
thickens  with  rain  and  begins  to  nip. 

My  miserable  companion's  voice  comes  to  me  in 
shreds.  He  is  trying  to  explain  to  me  the  law  of  unre- 

*lfarcassin — a  young  wild  boar. — Tr. 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  EVENING        65 

mitting  toil.    An  echo  of  his  murmur  reaches  my  face. 

"And  that's  what  one  hasn't  the  least  idea  of.  Be- 
cause what's  nearest  to  us,  often,  one  doesn't  see  it." 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  I  say,  rather  weary  of  his  monot- 
onous complaining. 

I  try  a  few  words  of  consolation,  knowing  that  he  was 
recently  married.  "After  all,  no  one  comes  bothering 
you  in  your  own  little  corner.  There's  always  that.  And 
then,  after  all,  you're  going  home — your  wife  is  waiting 
for  you.  You're  lucky " 

"I've  no  time;  or  rather,  I've  no  strength.  At  nights, 
when  I  come  home  I'm  too  tired — I'm  too  tired,  you 
understand,  to  be  happy,  you  see.  Every  morning  I 
think  I  shall  be,  and  I'm  hoping  up  till  noon;  but  at 
night  I'm  too  knocked  out,  what  with  walking  and  rub- 
bing for  eleven  hours;  and  on  Sundays  I'm  done  in  alto- 
gether with  the  week.  There's  even  times  that  I  don't 
even  wash  myself  when  I  come  in.  I  just  stay  with  my 
hands  mucky;  and  on  Sundays  when  I'm  cleaned  up, 
it's  a  nasty  one  when  they  say  to  me,  'You're  looking 
well.' " 

And  while  I  am  listening  to  the  tragicomical  recital 
which  he  retails,  like  a  soliloquy,  without  expecting  re- 
plies from  me — luckily,  for  I  should  not  know  how  to 
answer — I  can,  in  fact,  recall  those  holidays  when  the 
face  of  Petrolus  is  embellished  by  the  visible  marks  of 
water. 

"Apart  from  that,"  he  goes  on,  withdrawing  his  chin 
into  the  gray  string  of  his  over-large  collar;  "apart  from 
that,  Charlotte,  she's  very  good.  She  looks  after  me, 
and  tidies  the  house,  and  it's  her  that  lights  our  lamp; 
and  she  hides  the  books  carefully  away  from  me  so's 
I  can't  grease  'em,  and  my  fingers  make  prints  on  'em 
like  criminals.  She's  good,  but  it  doesn't  turn  out  well, 
same  as  I've  told  you,  and  when  one's  unhappy  every- 
thing's favorable  to  being  unhappy." 


66  LIGHT 

He  is  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  adds  by  way  of  coo- 
elusion  to  all  he  has  said,  and  to  all  that  one  can  say, 
"My  father,  he  caved  in  at  fifty.  And  I  shall  cave  in 
at  fifty,  p'raps  before." 

With  his  thumb  he  points  through  the  twilight  at  that 
sort  of  indelible  darkness  which  makes  the  multitude, 
"Them  others,  it's  not  the  same  with  them.  There's 
those  that  want  to  change  everything  and  keep  going 
on  that  notion.  There's  those  that  drink  and  want  to 
drink,  and  keep  going  that  way." 

I  hardly  listen  to  him  while  he  explains  to  me  the 
grievances  of  the  different  groups  of  workmen,  "The 
molders,  monsieur,  them,  it's  a  matter  of  the  gangs " 

Just  now,  while  looking  at  the  population  of  the  fac- 
tory, I  was  almost  afraid;  it  seemed  to  me  that  these 
toilers  were  different  sorts  of  beings  from  the  detached 
and  impecunious  people  who  live  around  me.  When  I 
look  at  this  one  I  say  to  myself,  "They  are  the  same; 
they  are  all  alike." 

In  the  distance,  and  together,  they  strike  fear,  and 
their  combination  is  a  menace;  but  near  by  they  are 
only  the  same  as  this  one.  One  must  not  look  at  them  in 
the  distance. 

Petrolus  gets  excited;  he  makes  gestures;  he  punches 
in  and  punches  out  again  with  his  fist,  the  hat  which  is 
stuck  askew  on  his  conical  head,  over  the  ears  that 
are  pointed  like  artichoke  leaves.  He  is  in  front  of  me, 
and  each  of  his  soles  is  pierced  by  a  valve  which  draws 
in  water  from  the  saturated  ground. 

"The  unions,  monsieur "  he  cries  to  me  in  the 

wind,  "why,  it's  dangerous  to  point  at  them.  You 
haven't  the  right  to  think  any  more — that's  what  they 
call  liberty.  If  you're  in  them,  you've  got  to  be  agin 
the  parsons — (I'm  willing,  but  what's  that  got  to  do  with 
labor?) — and  there's  something  more  serious,"  the  lamp- 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  EVENING         67 

man  adds,  in  a  suddenly  changed  voice,  "you've  got  to 
be  agin  the  army, — the  army!" 

And  now  the  poor  slave  of  the  lamp  seems  to  take  a 
resolution.  He  stops  and  devotionally  rolling  his  Don 
Quixote  eyes  in  his  gloomy,  emaciated  face,  he  says, 
*'I'm  always  thinking  about  something.  What?  you'll 
say.  Well,  here  it  is.  I  belong  to  the  League  of  Pa- 
triots." 

As  they  brighten  still  more,  his  eyes  are  like  two 
live  embers  in  the  darkness,  "Deroulede!"  he  cries; 
"that's  the  man— he's  my  God!" 

Petrolus  raises  his  voice  and  gesticulates;  he  makes 
great  movements  in  the  night  at  the  vision  of  his  idol, 
to  whom  his  leanness  and  his  long  elastic  arms  give  him 
some  resemblance.  "He's  for  war;  he's  for  Alsace-Lor- 
raine, that's  what  he's  for;  and  above  all,  he's  for  noth- 
ing else.  Ah,  that's  all  there  is  to  it!  The  Bodies  have 
got  to  disappear  off  the  earth,  else  it'll  be  us.  Ah,  when 
they  talk  politics  to  me,  I  ask  'em,  'Are  you  for  Derou- 
lede, yes  or  no?'  That's  enough!  I  got  my  schooling 
any  old  how,  and  I  know  next  to  nothing  but  I  reckon 
it's  grand,  only  to  think  like  that,  and  in  the  Reserves 
I'm  adjutant J — almost  an  officer,  monsieur,  just  a  lamp- 
man  as  I  am!" 

He  tells  me,  almost  in  shouts  and  signs,  because  of 
the  wind  across  the  open,  that  his  worship  dates  from  a 
function  at  which  Paul  Deroulede  had  spoken  to  him. 
"He  spoke  to  everybody,  an'  then  he  spoke  to  me,  as 
close  to  me  as  you  and  me;  but  it  was  him!  I  wanted 
an  idea,  and  he  gave  it  to  me!" 

"Very  good,"  I  say  to  him;  "very  good.  You  are  a 
patriot,  that's  excellent." 

I  feel  that  the  greatness  of  this  creed  surpasses  the 
selfish  demands  of  labor — although  I  have  never  had 

*A  non-com.,  approximately  equivalent  to  regimental  ser- 
geant-maj  or. — Tr. 


68  LIGHT 

the  time  to  think  much  about  these  things — and  it  strikes 
me  as  touching  and  noble. 

A  last  fiery  spasm  gets  hold  of  Petrolus  as  he  espies 
afar  Eudo's  pointed  house,  and  he  cries  that  on  the  great 
day  of  revenge  there  will  be  some  accounts  to  settle; 
and  then  the  fervor  of  this  ideal-bearer  cools  and  fades, 
and  is  spent  along  the  length  of  the  roads.  He  is  now 
no  more  than  a  poor  black  bantam  which  cannot  pos- 
sibly take  wing.  His  face  mournfully  awakes  to  the 
evening.  He  shuffles  along,  bows  his  long  and  feeble 
spine,  and  his  spirit  and  his  strength  exhausted,  he  ap- 
proaches the  porch  of  his  house,  where  Madame  Mar- 
cassin  awaits  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A   SUMMARY 

THE  workmen  manifest  mistrust  and  even  dislike  to- 
wards me.  Why?  I  don't  know;  but  my  good  inten- 
tions have  gradually  got  weary. 

One  after  another,  sundry  women  have  occupied  my 
life.  Antonia  Veron  was  first.  Het  marriage  and  mine, 
their  hindrance  and  restriction,  threw  us  back  upon  each 
other  as  of  yore.  We  found  ourselves  alone  one  day  in 
my  house — where  nothing  ever  used  to  happen,  and  she 
offered  me  her  lips,  irresistibly.  The  appeal  of  her  sen- 
suality was  answered  by  mine,  then,  and  often  later. 
But  the  pleasure  constantly  restored,  which  impelled  me 
towards  her,  always  ended  in  dismal  enlightenments. 
She  remained  a  capricious  and  baffling  egotist,  and  when 
I  came  away  from  her  house  across  the  dark  suburb 
among  a  host  of  beings  vanishing,  like  myself,  I  only 
brought  away  the  memory  of  her  nervous  and  irritating 
laugh,  and  that  new  wrinkle  which  clung  to  her  mouth 
like  an  implement. 

Then  younger  desires  destroyed  the  old,  and  gallant 
adventures  begot  one  another.  It  is  all  over  with  this 
one  and  that  one  whom  I  adored.  When  I  see  them 
again,  I  wonder  that  I  can  say,  at  one  and  the  same 
time,  of  a  being  who  has  not  changed,  "How  I  loved 
her!"  and,  "How  I  have  ceased  to  love  her!" 

All  the  while  performing  as  a  duty  my  daily  task, 
all  the  while  taking  suitable  precautions  so  that  Marie 
may  not  know  and  may  not  suffer,  I  am  looking  for  the 

69 


70  LIGHT 

happiness  which  lives.  And  truly,  when  I  have  a  sense 
of  some  new  assent  wavering  and  making  ready,  or  when 
I  am  on  the  way  to  a  first  rendezvous,  I  feel  myself 
gloriously  uplifted,  and  equal  to  everything! 

This  fills  my  life.  Desire  wears  the  brain  as  much  as 
thought  wears  it.  All  my  being  is  agog  for  chances  to 
shine  and  to  be  shared.  When  they  say  in  my  presence 
of  some  young  woman  that,  "she  is  not  happy,"  a  thrill 
of  joy  tears  through  me. 

On  Sundays,  among  the  crowds,  I  have  often  felt  my 
heart  tighten  with  distress  as  I  watch  the  unknown 
women.  Reverie  has  often  held  me  all  day  because 
of  one  who  has  gone  by  and  disappeared,  leaving  me  a 
clear  vision  of  her  ;urtained  room,  and  of  herself,  vi- 
brating like  a  harp.  Hhe,  perhaps,  was  the  one  I  should 
have  always  loved;  she  whom  I  seek  gropingly,  des- 
perately, from  each  to  the  next.  Ah,  what  a  delightful 
thing  to  see  and  to  think  of  a  distant  woman  always  is, 
whoever  she  may  be! 

There  are  moments  when  I  suffer,  and  am  to  be  pitied. 
Assuredly,  if  one  could  read  me  really,  no  one  would 
pity  me.  And  yet  all  men  are  like  me.  If  they  are 
gifted  with  acceptable  physique  they  dream  of  headlong 
adventures,  they  attempt  them,  and  our  heart  never 
stands  still.  But  no  one  acknowledges  that,  no  one, 
ever. 

Then,  there  were  the  women  who  turned  me  a  cold 
shoulder;  and  among  them  all  Madame  Pierron,  a  beau- 
tiful and  genteel  woman  of  twenty-five  years,  with  her 
black  fillets  and  her  marble  profile,  who  still  retained 
the  obvious  awkwardness  and  vacant  eye  of  young  mar- 
ried women.  Tranquil,  staid  and  silent,  she  came  and 
went  and  lived,  totally  blind  to  my  looks  of  admiration. 

This  perfect  unconcern  aggravated  my  passion.  I 
remember  my  pangs  one  morning  in  June,  when  I  saw 
some  feminine  linen  spread  upon  the  green  hedge  within 


A  SUMMARY  71: 

her  garden.  The  delicate  white  things  marshaled  there 
were  waiting,  stirred  by  the  leaves  and  the  breeze;  so 
that  Spring  lent  them  frail  shape  and  sweetness — and 
life.  I  remember,  too,  a  gaunt  house,  scorching  in  the 
sun,  and  a  window  which  flashed  and  then  shutl  The 
window  stayed  shut,  like  a  slab.  All  the  world  was 
silent;  and  that  splendid  living  being  was  walled  up 
there.  And  last,  I  have  recollection  of  an  evening  when, 
in  the  bluish  and  dark  green  and  chalky  landscape  of  the 
town  and  its  rounded  gardens,  I  saw  that  window  lighted 
up.  A  narrow  glimmer  of  rose  and  gold  was  enframed 
there,  and  I  could  distinguish,  leaning  on  the  sill  that 
overhung  the  town,  in  the  heart  of  that  resplendence, 
a  feminine  form  which  stirred  before  my  eyes  in  inac- 
cessible forbearance.  Long  did  I  watch  with  shaking 
knees  that  window  dawning  upon  space,  as  the  shepherd 
watches  the  rising  of  Venus.  That  evening,  when  I  had 
come  in  and  was  alone  for  a  moment — Marie  was  busy 
below  in  the  kitchen — alone  in  our  unattractive  room, 
I  retired  to  the  starry  window,  beset  by  immense 
thoughts.  These  spaces,  these  separations,  these  in- 
calculable durations — they  all  reduce  us  to  dust,  they 
all  have  a  sort  of  fearful  splendor  from  which  we  seek 

defense  in  our  hiding. 

****** 

I  have  not  retained  a  definite  recollection  of  a  period 
of  jealousy  from  which  I  suffered  for  a  year.  From 
certain  facts,  certain  profound  changes  of  mood  in  Marie, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  some  one  between  her 
and  me.  But  beyond  vague  symptoms  and  these  ter- 
rible reflections  on  her,  I  never  knew  anything.  The 
truth,  everywhere  around  me,  was  only  a  phantom  of 
truth.  I  experienced  acute  internal  wounds  of  humilia- 
tion and  shame,  of  rebellion!  I  struggled  feebly,  as 
well  as  I  could,  against  a  mystery  too  great  for  me, 


72  LIGHT 

and  then  my  suspicions  wore  themselves  out.  I  fled 
from  the  nightmare,  and  by  a  strong  effort  I  forgot  it. 
Perhaps  my  imputations  had  no  basis;  but  it  is  curious 
how  one  ends  in  only  believing  what  one  wants  to  be- 
lieve. 

****** 

Something  which  had  been  plotting  a  long  while 
among  the  Socialist  extremists  suddenly  produced  a  stop- 
page of  work  at  the  factory,  and  this  was  followed  by 
demonstrations  which  rolled  through  the  terrified  town. 
Everywhere  the  shutters  went  up.  The  business  people 
blotted  out  their  shops,  and  the  town  looked  like  a  tragic 
Sunday. 

"It's  a  revolution!"  said  Marie  to  me,  turning  pale, 
as  Benoit  cried  to  us  from  the  step  of  our  porch  the 
news  that  the  workmen  were  marching.  "How  does  it 
come  about  that  you  knew  nothing  at  the  factory?" 

An  hour  later  we  learned  that  a  delegation  composed 
of  the  most  dangerous  ringleaders  was  preceding  the 
army  of  demonstrators,  commissioned  to  extort  outra- 
geous advantages,  with  threats,  from  Messrs.  Gozlan. 

Our  quarter  had  a  loose  and  dejected  look.  People 
went  furtively,  seeking  news,  and  doors  half  opened  re- 
gretfully. Here  and  there  groups  formed  and  lamented 
in  undertones  the  public  authority's  lack  of  foresight, 
the  insufficient  measures  for  preserving  order. 

Rumors  were  peddled  about  on  the  progress  of  the 
demonstration. 

"They're  crossing  the  river." 

"They're  at  the  Calvary  cross-roads." 

"It's  a  march  against  the  castle! " 

I  went  into  Fontan's.  He  was  not  there,  and  some 
men  were  talking  in  the  twilight  of  the  closed  shutters. 

"The  Baroness  is  in  a  dreadful  way.  She's  seen  a 
dark  mass  in  the  distance.  Some  young  men  of  the 


A  SUMMARY  73 

aristocracy  have   armed   themselves  and   are  guarding 
her.    She  says  it's  another  Jacquerie1  rising!" 

"Ah,  my  God!     What  a  mess!"  said  Crillon. 

"It's  the  beginning  of  the  end!"  asserted  old  Daddy 
Ponce,  shaking  his  grayish-yellow  forehead,  all  plaited 
with  wrinkles. 

Time  went  by — still  no  news.  What  are  they  doing 
yonder?  What  shall  we  hear  next? 

At  last,  towards  three  o'clock  Postaire  is  framed  in 
the  doorway,  sweating  and  exultant.  "It's  over!  It's 
all  right,  my  lad!"  he  gasps;  "I  can  vouch  for  it  that 
they  all  arrived  together  at  the  Gozlans'  villa.  Messrs. 
Gozlan  were  there.  The  delegates,  I  can  vouch  for  it 
that  they  started  shouting  and  threatening,  my  lad! 
'Never  mind  that!'  says  one  of  the  Messrs.  Gozlan, 
'let's  have  a  drink  first;  I'll  vouch  for  it  we'll  talk  bet- 
ter after!'  There  was  a  table  and  champagne,  I'll 
vouch  for  it.  They  gave  'em  it  to  drink,  and  then  some 
more  and  then  some  more.  I'll  vouch  for  it  they  sent 
themselves  something  down,  my  lad,  into  their  waist- 
coats. I  can  vouch  for  it  that  the  bottles  of  champagne 
came  like  magic  out  of  the  ground.  Fontan  kept  always 
bringing  them  as  though  he  was  coining  them.  Got  to 
admit  it  was  an  extra-double-special  guaranteed  cham- 
pagne, that  you  want  to  go  cautious  with.  So  then, 
after  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  nearly  all  the  deputation 
were  drunk.  They  spun  round,  tongue-tied,  and  em- 
braced each  other, — I  can  vouch  for  it.  There  were 
some  that  stuck  it,  but  they  didn't  count,  my  lad!  The 
others  didn't  even  know  what  they'd  come  for.  And  the 
bosses;  they'd  had  a  fright,  and  they  didn't  half  wrig- 
gle and  roar  with  laughing — I'll  vouch  for  it,  my  lad! 
An'  then,  to-morrow,  if  they  want  to  start  again,  there'll 
be  troops  here!" 

*A  terrible  insurrection  of  the  French  peasantry  in  1358. 
— Tr. 


74  LIGHT 

Joyful  astonishment — the  strike  had  been  drowned 
in  wine!  And  we  repeated  to  each  other,  "To-morrow 
there'll  be  the  military!" 

"Ah!"  gaped  Crillon,  rolling  wonder-struck  eyes, 
"That's  clever!  Good;  that's  clever,  that  is!  Good,  old 
chap " 

He  laughed  a  heavy,  vengeful  laugh,  and  repeated  his 
familiar  refrain  full-throated:  "The  sovereign  people 
that  can't  stand  on  its  own  legs!" 

By  the  side  of  a  few  faint-hearted  citizens  who  had 
already,  since  the  morning,  modified  their  political  opin- 
ions, a  great  figure  rises  before  my  eyes — Fontan.  I  re- 
member that  night,  already  long  ago,  when  a  chance 
glimpse  through  the  vent-hole  of  his  cellar  showed  me 
shiploads  of  bottles  of  champagne  heaped  together,  and 
pointed  like  shells.  For  some  future  day  he  foresaw 
to-day's  victory.  He  is  really  clever,  he  sees  clearly 
and  he  sees  far.  He  has  rescued  law  and  order  by  a 
sort  of  genius. 

The  constraint  which  has  weighed  all  day  on  our  ges- 
tures and  words  explodes  in  delight.  Noisily  we  cast 
off  that  demeanor  of  conspirators  which  has  bent  our 
shoulders  since  morning.  The  windows  that  were  closed 
during  the  weighty  hours  of  the  insurrection  are  opened 
wide;  the  houses  breathe-  again. 

"We're  saved  from  that  gang!"  people  say,  when 
they  approach  each  other. 

This  feeling  of  deliverance  pervades  the  most  lowly. 
On  the  step  of  the  little  blood-red  restaurant  I  spy 
Monsieur  Mielvaque,  hopping  for  joy.  He  is  shivering, 
too,  in  his  thin  gray  coat,  cracked  with  wrinkles,  that 
looks  like  wrapping  paper;  and  one  would  say  that  his 
dwindled  face  had  at  long  last  caught  the  hue  of  the 
folios  he  desperately  copies  among  his  long  days  and 
his  short  nights,  to  pick  up  some  sprigs  of  extra  pay. 
There  he  stands,  not  daring  to  enter  the  restaurant 


A  SUMMARY  75 

(for* a  reason  he  knows  too  well);  but  how  delighted  he 
is  with  the  day's  triumph  for  society!  And  Made- 
moiselle Constantine,  the  dressmaker,  incurably  poorwand 
worn  away  by  her  sewing-machine,  is  overjoyed.  She 
opens  wide  the  eyes  which  seem  eternally  full  of  tears, 
and  in  the  grayish  abiding  half-mourning  of  imperfect 
cleanliness,  in  pallid  excitement,  she  claps  her  hands. 

Marie  and  I  can  hear  the  furious  desperate  hammering 
of  Brisbille  in  his  forge,  and  we  begin  to  laugh  as  we 
have  not  laughed  for  a  long  time. 

At  night,  before  going  to  sleep,  I  recall  my  former 
democratic  fancies.  Thank  God,  I  have  escaped  from 
a  great  peril!  I  can  see  it  clearly  by  the  terror  which 
the  workmen's  menace  spread  in  decent  circles,  and  by 
the  universal  joy  which  greeted  their  recoil!  My  deep- 
est tendencies-take'hold  of  me  again  for  good,  and  every- 
thing settles  down  as  before. 

*****  * 

Much  time  has  gone  by.  It  is  ten  years  now  since 
I  was  married,  and  in  that  lapse  of  time  there  is  hardly 
a  happening  that  I  remember,  unless  it  be  the  disillusion 
of  the  death  of  Marie's  rich  godmother,  who  left  us  noth- 
ing. There  was  the  failure  of  the  Pocard  scheme,  which 
was  only  a  swindle  and  ruined  many  small  people.  Poli- 
tics pervaded  the  scandal,  while  certain  people  hurried 
with  their  money  to  Monsieur  Boulaque,  whose  scheme 
was  much  more  safe  and  substantial.  There  was  also 
my  father-in-law's  illness  and  his  death,  which  was  a 
great  shock  to  Marie,  and  put  us  into  black  clothes. 

I  have  not  changed.  Marie  has  somewhat.  She  has 
got  stouter;  her  eyelids  look  tired  and  red,  and  she  buries 
herself  in  silences.  We  are  no  longer  quite  in  accord 
in  details  of  our  life.  She  who  once  always  said  "Yes," 
is  now  primarily  disposed  to  say  "No."  If  I  insist  she 
defends  her  opinion,  obstinately,  sourly;  and  sometimes 
dishonestly.  For  example,  in  the  matter  of  pulling  down 


76  LIGHT 

the  partition  downstairs,  if  people  had  heard  our  high 
voices  they  would  have  thought  there  was  a  quarrel. 
Following  some  of  our  discussions,  she  keeps  her  face 
contracted  and  spiteful,  or  assumes  the  martyr's  air,  and 
sometimes  there  are  moments  of  hatred  between  us. 

Often  she  says,  while  talking  of  something  else,  "Ah, 
if  we  had  had  a  child,  all  would  have  been  different!" 

I  am  becoming  personally  negligent,  through  a  sort 
of  idleness,  against  which  I  have  not  sufficient  grounds 
for  reaction.  When  we  are  by  ourselves,  at  meal  times, 
my  hands  are  sometimes  questionable.  From  day  to 
day,  and  from  month  to  month,  I  defer  going  to  the 
dentist  and  postpone  the  attention  required.  I  am  al- 
lowing my  molars  to  get  jagged. 

Marie  never  shows  any  jealousy,  nor  even  suspicion 
about  my  personal  adventures.  Her  trust  is  almost  ex- 
cessive! She  is  not  very  far-seeing,  or  else  I  am  nothing 
very  much  to  her,  and  I  have  a  grudge  against  her  for 
this  indifference. 

And  now  I  see  around  me  women  who  are  too  young 
to  love  me.  That  most  positive  of  obstacles,  the  age 
difference,  begins  to  separate  me  from  the  amorous. 
And  yet  I  am  not  surfeited  with  love,  and  I  yearn  to- 
wards youth!  Marthe,  my  little  sister-in-law,  said  to 

me  one  day,  "Now  that  you're  old "  That  a  child 

of  fifteen  years,  so  freshly  dawned  and  really  new,  can 
bring  herself  to  pass  this  artless  judgment  on  a  man  of 
thirty-five — that  is  fate's  first  warning,  the  first  sad  day 
which  tells  us  at  midsummer  that  winter  will  come. 

One  evening,  as  I  entered  the  room,  I  indistinctly 
saw  Marie,  sitting  and  musing  by  the  window.  As  I 
came  in  she  got  up — it  was  Marthe!  The  light  from 
the  sky,  pale  as  a  dawn,  had  blenched  the  young  girl's 
golden  hair  and  turned  the  trace  of  a  smile  on  her  cheek 
into  something  like  a  wrinkle.  Cruelly,  the  play  of  the 
light  showed  her  face  faded  and  her  neck  flabby;  and  be- 


A  SUMMARY  77 

cause  she  had  been  yawning,  even  her  eyes  were  watery, 
and  for  some  seconds  the  lids  were  sunk  and  reddened. 

The  resemblance  of  the  two  sisters  tortured  me.  This 
little  Marthe,  with  her  luxurious  and  appetizing  color, 
her  warm  pink  cheeks  and  moist  lips;  this  plump  ado- 
lescent whose  short  skirt  shows  her  curving  calves,  is 
an  affecting  picture  of  what  Marie  was.  It  is  a  sort  of 
terrible  revelation.  In  truth  Marthe  resembles,  more 
than  the  Marie  of  to-day  does,  the  Marie  whom  I  for- 
merly loved;  the  Marie  who  came  out  of  the  unknown, 
whom  I  saw  one  evening  sitting  on  the  rose-tree  seat, 
shining,  silent — in  the  presence  of  love. 

It  required  a  great  effort  on  my  part  not  to  try,  weakly 
and  vainly,  to  approach  Marthe — the  impossible  dream, 
the  dream  of  dreams!  She  has  a  little  love  affair  with 
a  youngster  hardly  molted  into  adolescence,  and  rather 
absurd,  whom  one  catches  sight  of  now  and  again  as 
he  slips  away  from  her  side;  and  that  day  when  she 
sang  so  much  in  spite  of  herself,  it  was  because  a  little 
rival  was  ill.  I  am  as  much  a  stranger  to  her  girlish 
growing  triumph  and  to  her  thoughts  as  if  I  were  her 
enemy!  One  morning  when  she  was  capering  and  laugh- 
ing, flower-crowned,  at  the  doorstep,  she  looked  to  me 
like  a  being  from  another  world. 

****** 

One  winter's  day,  when  Marie  had  gone  out  and  I 
was  arranging  my  papers,  I  found  a  letter  I  had  writ- 
ten not  long  before,  but  had  not  posted,  and  I  threw  the 
useless  document  on  the  fire.  When  Marie  came  back 
in  the  evening,  she  settled  herself  in  front  of  the  fire 
to  dry  herself,  and  to  revive  it  for  the  room's  twilight; 
and  the  letter,  which  had  been  only  in  part  consumed, 
took  fire  again.  And  suddenly  there  gleamed  in  the 
light  a  shred  of  paper  with  a  shred  of  my  writing — "/ 
love  you  as  muck  as  you  love  me!" 

And  it  was  so  clear,  the  inscription  that  flamed  in 


,78  LIGHT 

the  darkness,  that  it  was  not  worth  while  even  to  attempt 
an  explanation. 

We  could  not  speak,  nor  even  look  at  each  other!  In 
the  fatal  communion  of  thought  which  seized  us  just 
then,  we  turned  aside  from  each  other,  even  shadow- 
veiled  as  we  were.  We  fled  from  the  truth!  In  these 
great  happenings  we  become  strangers  to  each  other  for 
the  reason  that  we  never  knew  each  other  profoundly. 
We  are  vaguely  separated  on  earth  from  everybody  else, 
but  we  are  mightily  distant  from  our  nearest. 

*  *    '        *  *  *  * 

After  all  these  things,  my  former  life  resumed  its  in- 
different course.  Certainly  I  am  not  so  unhappy  as  they 
who  have  the  bleeding  wound  of  a  bereavement  or  re- 
morse, but  I  am  not  so  delighted  with  life  as  I  once 
hoped  to  be.  Ah,  men's  love  and  women's  beauty  are 
too  short-lived  in  this  world;  and  yet,  is  it  not  only 
thereby  that  we  and  they  exist?  It  might  be  said  that 
love,  so  pure  a  thing,  the  only  one  worth  while  in  life, 
is  a  crime,  since  it  is  always  punished  sooner  or  later. 
I  do  not  understand.  We  are  a  pitiful  lot;  and  every- 
where about  us — in  our  movements,  within  our  walls, 
and  from  hour  to  hour,  there  is  a  stifling  mediocrity. 
Fate's  face  is  gray. 

Notwithstanding,  my  personal  position  has  established 
itself  and  progressively  improved.  I  am  getting  three 
hundred  and  sixty  francs  a  month,  and  besides,  I  have 
a  share  in  the  profits  of  the  litigation  office — about  fifty 
francs  a  month.  It  is  a  year  and  a  half  since  I  was 
stagnating  in  the  little  glass  office,  to  which  Monsieur 
Mielvaque  has  been  promoted,  succeeding  me.  Nowa- 
days they  say  to  me,  "You're  lucky!"  They  envy  me — 
who  once  envied  so  many  people.  It  astonishes  me  at 
first,  then  I  get  used  to  it. 

I  have  restored  my  political  plans,  but  this  time  I 
have  a  rational  and  normal  policy  hi  view.  I  am  nomi- 


A  SUMMARY  79 

nated  to  succeed  Crillon  in  the  Town  Council.  There, 
no  doubt,  I  shall  arrive  sooner  or  later.  I  continue  to 
become  a  personality  by  the  force  of  circumstances, 
without  my  noticing  it,  and  without  any  real  interest  in 
me  on  the  part  of  those  around  me. 

Quite  a  piece  of  my  life  has  now  gone  by.  When 
sometimes  I  think  of  that,  I  am  surprised  at  the  length 
of  the  time  elapsed;  at  the  number  of  the  days  and  the 
years  that  are  dead.  It  has  come  quickly,  and  without 
much  change  in  myself  on  the  other  hand;  and  I  turn 
away  from  that  vision,  at  once  real  and  supernatural. 
And  yet,  in  spite  of  myself,  my  future  appears  before 
my  eyes — and  its  end.  My  future  will  resemble  my 
past;  it  does  so  already.  I  can  dimly  see  all  my  life, 
from  one  end  to  the  other,  all  that  I  am,  all  that  I  shall 
have  been. 


CHAPTER 

THE  BRAWLER 

AT  the  time  of  the  great  military  maneuvers  of  Sep- 
tember, 1913,  Viviers  was  an  important  center  of  the 
operations.  All  the  district  was  brightened  with  a 
swarming  of  red  and  blue  and  with  martial  ardor. 

Alone  and  systematically,  Brisbille  was  the  reviler. 
From  the  top  of  Chestnut  Hill,  where  we  were  watching 
a  strategical  display,  he  pointed  at  the  military  mass. 
"Maneuvers,  do  they  call  them?  I  could  die  of  laugh- 
ing! The  red  caps  have  dug  trenches  and  the  white-band 
caps  have  bunged  'em  up  again.  Take  away  the  War 
Office,  and  you've  only  kids'  games  left." 

"It's  war!"  explained  an  influential  military  corre- 
spondent, who  was  standing  by. 

Then  the  journalist  talked  with  a  colleague  about  the 
Russians. 

"The  Russians!"  Brisbille  broke  in;  "when  they've 
formed  a  republic " 

"He's  a  simpleton,"  said  the  journalist,  smiling. 

The  inebriate  jumped  astride  his  hobby  horse.  "War 
me  no  war,  it's  all  lunacy!  And  look,  look — look  at 
those  red  trousers  that  you  can  see  miles  away!  They 
must  do  it  on  purpose  for  soldiers  to  be  killed,  that  they 
don't  dress  'em  in  the  color  of  nothing  at  all!" 

A  lady  could  not  help  breaking  in  here:  "What?" 
Change  our  little  soldiers'  red  trousers?  Impossible! 
There's  no  good  reason  for  it.  They  would  never  con- 
sent I  They  would  rebel." 

80 


THE  BRAWLER  81 

"Egad!"  said  a  young  officer;  "why  we  should  all 
throw  up  our  commissions!  And  any  way,  the  red 
trousers  are  not  the  danger  one  thinks.  If  they  were  as 
visible  as  all  that,  the  High  Command  would  have  no- 
ticed it  and  would  have  taken  steps — just  for  field  serv- 
ice, and  without  interfering  with  the  parade  uniform!" 

The  regimental  sergeant-major  cut  the  discussion  short 
as  he  turned  to  Brisbille  with  vibrant  scorn  and  said. 
"When  the  Day  of  Revenge  comes,  we  shall  have  to 
be  there  to  defend  you!" 

And  Brisbille  only  uttered  a  shapeless  reply,  for  the 
sergeant-major  was  an  athlete,  and  gifted  with  a  bad 
temper,  especially  when  others  were  present. 

The  castle  was  quartering  a  Staff.  Hunting  parties 
were  given  for  the  occasion  in  the  manorial  demesne, 
and  passing  processions  of  bedizened  guests  were  seen. 
Among  the  generals  and  nobles  shone  an  Austrian  prince 
of  the  blood  royal,  who  bore  one  of  the  great  names  in 
the  Almanach  de  Gotha,  and  who  was  officially  in  France 
to  follow  the  military  operations. 

The  presence  of  the  Baroness's  semi-Imperial  guest 
caused  a  great  impression  of  historic  glamour  to  hover 
over  the  country.  His  name  was  repeated;  his  windows 
were  pointed  out  in  the  middle  of  the  principal  front, 
and  one  thought  himself  lucky  if  he  saw  the  curtains 
moving.  Many  families  of  poor  people  detached  them- 
selves from  their  quarters  in  the  evenings  to  take  up 
positions  before  the  wall  behind  which  he  was. 

Marie  and  I,  we  were  close  to  him  twice. 

One  evening  after  dinner,  we  met  him  as  one  meets 
any  passer-by  among  the  rest.  He  was  walking  alone, 
covered  by  a  great  gray  waterproof.  His  felt  hat  was 
adorned  with  a  short  feather.  He  displayed  the  char- 
acteristic features  of  his  race — a  long  turned-down  nose 
and  a  receding  chin. 


82  LIGHT 

When  he  had  gone  by,  Marie  and  I  said,  both  at  the 
same  time,  and  a  little  dazzled,  "An  eagle!" 

We  saw  him  again  at  the  end  of  a  stag-hunt.  They 
had  driven  a  stag  into  the  Morteuil  forest.  The  mart 
took  place  in  a  clearing  in  the  park,  near  the  outer  wall. 
The  Baroness,  who  always  thought  of  the  townsfolk,  had 
ordered  the  little  gate  to  be  opened  which  gives  into 
this  part  of  the  demesne,  so  that  the  public  could  be 
present  at  the  spectacle. 

It  was  imperious  and  pompous.  The  scene  one  en- 
tered, on  leaving  the  sunny  fields  and  passing  through 
the  gate,  was  a  huge  circle  of  dark  foliage  in  the  heart 
of  the  ancient  forest.  At  first,  one  saw  only  the  ma- 
jestic summits  of  mountainous  trees,  like  peaks  and 
globes  lost  amid  the  heavens,  which  on  all  sides  over- 
hung the  clearing  and  bathed  it  in  twilight  almost 
green. 

In  this  lordly  solemnity  of  nature,  down  among  the 
grass,  moss  and  dead  wood,  there  flowed  a  contracted 
but  brilliant  concourse  around  the  final  preparations  for 
the  execution  of  the  stag. 

The  animal  was  kneeling  on  the  ground,  weak  and 
overwhelmed.  We  pressed  round,  and  eyes  were  thrust 
forward  between  heads  and  shoulders  to  see  him.  One 
could  make  out  the  gray  thicket  of  his  antlers,  his  great 
lolling  tongue,  and  the  enormous  throb  of  his  heart,  agi- 
tating his  exhausted  body.  A  little  wounded  fawn  clung 
to  him,  bleeding  abundantly,  flowing  like  a  spring. 

Round  about  it  the  ceremony  was  arranged  in  sev- 
eral circles.  The  beaters,  in  ranks,  made  a  glaring  red 
patch  in  the  moist  green  atmosphere.  The  hunters, 
men  and  women,  all  dismounted,  in  scarlet  coats  and 
black  hats,  crowded  together.  Apart,  the  saddle  and 
tackle  horses  snorted,  with  creaking  of  leather  and  jingle 
of  metal.  Kept  at  a  respectful  distance  by  a  rope  ex- 


THE  BRAWLER  83 

tended  hastily  on  posts,  the  inquisitive  crowd  flowed  and 
increased  every  instant. 

The  blood  which  issued  from  the  little  fawn  made  a 
widening  pool,  and  one  saw  the  ladies  of  the  hunt,  who 
came  to  look  as  near  as  possible,  pluck  up  their  habits 
so  that  they  would  not  tread  in  it.  The  sight  of  the 
great  stag  crushed  by  weariness,  gradually  drooping  his 
branching  head,  tormented  by  the  howls  of  the  hounds 
which  the  whipper-in  held  back  with  difficulty,  and  that 
of  the  little  one,  cowering  beside  him  and  dying  with 
gaping  throat,  would  have  been  touching  had  one  given 
way  to  sentiment. 

I  noticed  that  the  imminent  slaying  of  the  stag  ex- 
cited a  certain  curious  fever.  Around  me  the  women 
and  young  girls  especially  elbowed  and  wriggled  their 
way  to  the  front,  and  shuddered,  and  were  glad. 

They  cut  the  throats  of  the  beasts,  the  big  and  the 
little,  amid  absolute  and  religious  silence,  the  silence  of 
a  sacrament.  Madame  Lacaille  vibrated  from  head  to 
foot.  Marie  was  calm,  but  there  was  a  gleam  in  her 
eyes;  and  little  Marthe,  who  was  hanging  on  to  me, 
dug  her  nails  into  my  arm.  The  prince  was  prominent 
on  our  side,  watching  the  last  act  of  the  run.  He  had 
remained  in  the  saddle.  He  was  more  splendidly  red 
than  the  others — empurpled,  it  seemed,  by  reflections 
from  a  throne.  He  spoke  in  a  loud  voice,  like  one  who 
is  accustomed  to  govern  and  likes  to  discourse;  and  his 
outline  had  the  very  form  of  bidding.  He  expressed 
himself  admirably  in  our  language,  of  which  he  knew 
the  intimate  graduations.  I  heard  him  saying,  "These 
great  maneuvers,  after  all,  they're  a  sham.  It's  music- 
hall  war,  directed  by  scene-shifters.  Hunting's  better, 
because  there's  blood.  We  get  too  much  unaccustomed 
to  blood,  in  our  prosaic,  humanitarian,  and  bleating  age. 
Ah,  as  long  as  the  nations  love  hunting,  I  shall  not  de- 
spair of  them!" 


84  LIGHT 

Just  then,  the  crash  of  the  horns  and  the  thunder  of 
the  pack  released  drowned  all  other  sounds.  The  prince, 
erect  in  his  stirrups,  and  raising  his  proud  head  and 
his  tawny  mustache  above  the  bloody  and  cringing  mob 
of  the  hounds,  expanded  his  nostrils  and  seemed  to  sniff 
a  battlefield. 

The  next  day,  when  a  few  of  us  were  chatting  together 
in  the  street  near  the  sunken  post  where  the  old  jam-pot 
lies,  Benoit  came  up,  full  of  a  tale  to  tell.  Naturally  it 
was  about  the  prince.  Benoit  was  dejected  and  his  lips 
were  drawn  and  trembling.  "He's  killed  a  bear!"  said 
he,  with  glittering  eye;  "you  should  have  seen  it,  ah! 
a  tame  bear,  of  course.  Listen — he  was  coming  back 
from  hunting  with  the  Marquis  and  Mademoiselle 
Berthe  and  some  people  behind.  And  he  comes  on  a 
wandering  showman  with  a  performing  bear.  A  simple- 
ton with  long  black  hair  like  feathers,  and  a  bear  that 
sat  on  its  rump  and  did  little  tricks  and  wore  a  belt. 
The  prince  had  got  his  gun.  I  don't  know  how  it  came 
about  but  the  prince  he  got  an  idea.  He  said,  'I'd  like 
to  kill  that  bear,  as  I  do  in  my  own  hunting.  Tell  me, 
my  good  fellow,  how  much  shall  I  pay  you  for  firing  at 
the  beast?  You'll  not  be  a  loser,  I  promise  you.'  The 
simpleton  began  to  tremble  and  lift  his  arms  up  in  the 
air.  He  loved  his  bear!  'But  my  bear's  the  same  as  my 
brother!'  he  says.  Then  do  you  know  what  the  Marquis 
of  Monthyon  did?  He  just  simply  took  out  his  purse 
and  opened  it  and  put  it  under  the  chap's  nose;  and  all 
the  smart  hunting  folk  they  laughed  to  see  how  the  sim- 
pleton changed  when  he  saw  all  those  bank  notes.  And 
naturally  he  ended  by  nodding  that  it  was  a  bargain, 
and  he'd  even  seen  so  many  of  the  rustlers  that  he  turned 
from  crying  to  laughing!  Then  the  prince  loaded  his 
gun  at  ten  paces  from  the  bear  and  killed  it  with  one 
shot,  my  boy;  just  when  he  was  rocking  left  and  right 


THE  BRAWLER  85 

and  sitting  up  like  a  man.    You  ought  to  have  seen  it! 
There  weren't  a  lot  there;  but  /  was  there!" 

The  story  made  an  impression.  No  one  spoke  at  first. 
Then  some  one  risked  the  opinion.  "No  doubt  they  do 
things  like  that  in  Hungary  or  Bohemia,  or  where  he 
reigns.  You  wouldn't  see  it  here,"  he  added,  innocently. 

"He's  from  Austria,"  Tudor  corrected. 

"Yes,"  muttered  Crillon,  "but  whether  he's  Austrian 
or  whether  he's  Bohemian  or  Hungarian,  he's  a  grandee, 
so  he's  got  the  right  to  do  what  he  likes,  eh?" 

Eudo  looked  as  if  he  would  intervene  at  this  point  and 
was  seeking  words.  (Not  long  before  that  he  had  had 
the  queer  notion  of  sheltering  and  nursing  a  crippled 
hind  that  had  escaped  from  a  previous  run,  and  his  act 
had  given  great  displeasure  in  high  places.)  So  as  soon 
as  he  opened  his  mouth  we  made  him  shut  it.  The  idea 
of  Eudo  in  judgment  on  princes! 

And  the  rest  lowered  their  heads  and  nodded  and  mur- 
mured, "Yes,  he's  a  grandee." 

And  the  little  phrase  spread  abroad,  timidly  and  ob- 
scurely. 

****** 

When  All  Saints'  Day  came  round,  many  of  the  dis- 
tinguished visitors  at  the  castle  were  still  there.  Every 
year  that  festival  gives  us  occasion  for  an  historical 
ceremony  on  the  grand  scale.  At  two  o'clock  all  the 
townsfolk  that  matter  gather  with  bunches  of  flowers 
on  the  esplanade  or  in  front  of  the  cemetery  half-way 
up  Chestnut  Hill,  for  the  ceremony  and  an  open  air 
service. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  I  betook  myself  with  Marie 
to  the  scene.  I  put  on  a  fancy  waistcoat  of  black  and 
white  check  and  my  new  patent  leather  boots,  which 
make  me  look  at  them.  It  is  fine  weather  on  this  Sun- 
day of  Sundays,  and  the  bells  are  ringing.  Everywhere 
the  hurrying  crowd  climbs  the  hill — peasants  in  fiat  caps, 


66  LIGHT 

working  families  in  their  best  clothes,  young  girls  with 
faces  white  and  glossy  as  the  bridal  satin  which  is  the 
color  of  their  thoughts,  young  men  carrying  jars  of  flow- 
ers. All  these  appear  on  the  esplanade,  where  graying 
lime  trees  are  also  in  assembly.  Children  are  sitting 
on  the  ground. 

Monsieur  Joseph  Boneas,  in  black,  with  his  supremely 
distinguished  air,  goes  by  holding  his  mother's  arm.  I 
bow  deeply  to  them.  He  points  at  the  unfolding  spec- 
tacle as  he  passes  and  says,  "It  is  our  race's  festival." 

The  words  made  me  look  more  seriously  at  the  scene 
before  my  eyes — all  this  tranquil  and  contemplative  stir 
in  the  heart  of  festive  nature.  Reflection  and  the  vexa- 
tions of  my  life  have  mellowed  my  mind.  The  idea  at 
last  becomes  clear  in  my  brain  of  an  entirety,  an  im- 
mense multitude  in  space,  and  infinite  in  time,  a  multi- 
tude of  which  I  am  an  integral  part,  which  has  shaped 
me  in  its  image,  which  continues  to  keep  me  like  it, 
and  carries  me  along  its  control;  my  own  people. 

Baroness  Grille,  in  the  riding  habit  that  she  almost 
always  wears  when  mixing  with  the  people,  is  standing 
near  the  imposing  entry  to  the  cemetery.  Monsieur  the 
Marquis  of  Monthyon  is  holding  aloft  his  stately  pres- 
ence, his  handsome  and  energetic  face.  Solid  and  sport- 
ing, with  dazzling  shirt  cuffs  and  fine  ebon-black  shoes, 
he  parades  a  smile.  There  is  an  M.P.  too,  a  former 
Minister,  very  assiduous,  who  chats  with  the  old  duke. 
There  are  the  Messrs.  Gozlan  and  famous  people  whose 
names  one  does  not  know.  Members  of  the  Institute  of 
the  great  learned  associations,  or  people  fabulously 
wealthy. 

Not  far  from  these  groups,  which  are  divided  from 
the  rest  by  a  scarlet  barrier  of  beaters  and  the  flashing 
chain  of  their  slung  horns,  arises  Monsieur  Fontan. 
The  huge  merchant  and  cafe-owner  occupies  an  inter- 
mediate and  isolated  place  between  principals  and  peo- 


THE  BRAWLER  87 

pie.  His  face  is  disposed  in  fat  white  tiers,  like  a 
Buddha's  belly.  Monumentally  motionless  he  says  noth- 
ing at  all,  but  he  tranquilly  spits  all  around  him.  He 
radiates  saliva. 

And  for  this  ceremony,  which  seems  like  an  apotheosis, 
all  the  notables  of  our  quarter  are  gathered  together, 
as  well  as  those  of  the  other  quarter,  who  seem  different 
and  are  similar. 

We  elbow  the  ordinary  types.  Apolline  goes  crabwise. 
She  is  in  new  things,  and  has  sprinkled  Eau-de-Cologne 
on  her  skin;  her  eye  is  bright;  her  face  well-polished; 
her  ears  richly  adorned.  She  is  always  rather  dirty, 
and  her  wrists  might  be  branches,  but  she  has  cotton 
gloves.  There  are  some  shadows  in  the  picture,  for 
Brisbille  has  come  with  his  crony,  Termite,  so  that  his 
offensive  and  untidy  presence  may  be  a  protest.  There 
is  another  blot — a  working  man's  wife,  who  speaks  at 
their  meetings;  people  point  at  her.  "What's  that  woman 
doing  here?" 

"She  doesn't  believe  in  God,"  says  some  one. 

"Ah,"  says  a  mother  standing  by,  "that's  because  she 
has  no  children." 

"Yes,  she's  got  two." 

"Then,"  says  the  poor  woman,  "it's  because  they've 
never  been  ill." 

Here  is  little  Antoinette  and  the  old  priest  is  holding 
her  hand.  She  must  be  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old  by 
now,  and  she  has  not  grown — or,  at  least,  one  has  not 
noticed  it.  Father  Piot,  always  white,  gentle  and  mur- 
murous, has  shrunk  a  little;  more  and  more  he  leans 
towards  the  tomb.  Both  of  them  proceed  in  tiny  steps. 

"They're  going  to  cure  her,  it  seems.  They're  seeing 
to  it  seriously." 

"Yes — the  extraordinary  secret  remedy  they  say 
they're  going  to  try." 

"No,  it's  not  that  now.  It's  the  new  doctor  who's 


88  LIGHT 

come  to  live  here,  and  he  says,  they  say,  that  he's  going 
to  see  about  it." 

"Poor  little  angel  1" 

The  almost  blind  child,  whose  Christian  name  alone 
one  knows,  and  whose  health  is  the  object  of  so  much 
solicitude,  goes  stiffly  by,  as  if  she  were  dumb  also,  and 
deaf  to  all  the  prayers  that  go  on  with  her. 

After  the  service  some  one  comes  forward  and  begins 
to  speak.  He  is  an  old  man,  an  officer  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor;  his  voice  is  weak  but  his  face  noble. 

He  speaks  of  the  Dead,  whose  day  this  is.  He  ex- 
plains to  us  that  we  are  not  separated  from  them;  not 
only  by  reason  of  the  future  life  and  our  sacred  creeds, 
but  because  our  life  on  earth  must  be  purely  and  simply 
a  continuation  of  theirs.  We  must  do  as  they  did,  and 
believe  what  they  believed,  else  shall  we  fall  into  error 
and  utopianism.  We  are  all  linked  to  each  other  and 
with  the  past;  we  are  bound  together  by  an  entirety  of 
traditions  and  precepts.  Our  normal  destiny,  so  ade- 
quate to  our  nature,  must  be  allowed  to  fulfill  itself  along 
the  indicated  path,  without  hearkening  to  the  tempta- 
tions of  novelty,  of  hate,  of  envy — of  envy  above  all, 
that  social  cancer,  that  enemy  of  the  great  civic  virtue — 
Discipline. 

He  ceases.  The  echo  of  the  great  magnificent  words 
floats  in  the  silence.  Everybody  does  not  understand 
all  that  has  just  been  said;  but  all  have  a  deep  impres- 
sion that  the  text  is  one  of  simplicity,  of  moderation, 
of  obedience,  and  foreheads  move  altogether  in  the  breath 
of  the  phrases  like  a  field  in  the  breeze. 

"Yes,"  says  Crillon,  pensively,  "he  speaks  to  confec- 
tion, that  gentleman.  All  that  one  thinks  about,  you 
can  see  it  come  out  of  his  mouth.  Common  sense  and 
reverence,  we're  attached  to  'em  by  something." 

"We  are  attached  to  them  by  orderliness,"  says  Joseph 
Boneas. 


THE  BRAWLER  89 

"The  proof  that  it's  the  truth,"  Crillon  urges,  "is  that 
it's  in  the  dissertions  of  everybody." 

"To  be  sure!"  says  Benoit,  going  a  bit  farther,  "since 
everybody  says  it,  and  it's  become  a  general  repetition!" 

The  good  old  priest,  in  the  center  of  an  attentive  cir- 
cle, is  unstringing  a  few  observations.  "Er,  hem,"  he 
says,  "one  should  not  blaspheme.  Ah,  if  there  were  not 
a  good  God,  there  would  be  many  things  to  say;  but  so 
long  as  there  is  a  good  God,  all  that  happens  is  adorable, 
as  Monseigneur  said.  We  shall  make  things  better,  cer- 
tainly. Poverty  and  public  calamities  and  war,  we  shall 
change  all  that,  we  shall  set  those  things  to  rights,  er, 
hem!  But  let  us  alone,  above  all,  and  don't  concern 
yourselves  with  it — you  would  spoil  everything,  my  chil- 
dren. We  shall  do  all  that,  but  not  immediately." 

"Quite  so,  quite  so,"  we  say  in  chorus. 

"Can  we  be  happy  all  at  once,"  the  old  man  goes  on; 
"change  misery  into  joy,  and  poverty  into  riches?  Come 
now,  it's  not  possible,  and  I'll  tell  you  why;  if  it  had 
been  as  easy  as  all  that,  it  would  have  been  done  already, 
wouldn't  it?" 

The  bells  begin  to  ring.  The  four  strokes  of  the  hour 
are  just  falling  from  the  steeple  which  the  rising  mists 
touch  already,  though  the  evening  makes  use  of  it  last 
of  all;  and  just  then  one  would  say  that  the  church  is 
beginning  to  talk  even  while  it  is  singing. 

The  important  people  get  onto  their  horses  or  into 
their  carriages  and  go  away — a  cavalcade  where  uni- 
forms gleam  and  gold  glitters.  We  can  see  the  proces- 
sion of  the  potentates  of  the  day  outlined  on  the  crest 
of  the  hill  which  is  full  of  our  dead.  They  climb  and 
disappear,  one  by  one.  Our  way  is  downward;  but  we 
form — they  above  and  we  below — one  and  the  same 
mass,  all  visible  together. 

"It's  fine!"  says  Marie,  "it  looks  as  if  they  were  gal- 
loping over  us!" 


90  LIGHT 

They  are  the  shining  vanguard  that  protects  us,  the 
great  eternal  framework  which  upholds  our  country,  the 
forces  of  the  mighty  past  which  illuminate  it  and  pro- 
tect it  against  enemies  and  revolutions. 

And  we,  we  are  all  alike,  in  spite  of  our  different 
minds;  alike  in  the  greatness  of  our  common  interests 
and  even  in  the  littleness  of  our  personal  aims.  I  have 
become  increasingly  conscious  of  this  close  concord  of 
the  masses  beneath  a  huge  and  respect-inspiring  hier- 
archy. It  permits  a  sort  of  lofty  consolation  and  is 
exactly  adapted  to  a  life  like  mine.  This  evening,  by 
the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  I  see  it  and  read  it  and 
admire  it. 

All  together  we  go  down  by  the  fields  where  tranquil 
corn  is  growing,  by  the  gardens  and  orchards  where 
homely  trees  are  making  ready  their  offerings — the 
scented  blossom  which  lends,  the  fruit  which  gives  itself. 
They  form  an  immense  plain,  sloping  and  darkling,  with 
brown  undulations  under  the  blue  which  now  alone  is 
becoming  green.  A  little  girl,  who  has  come  from  the 
spring,  puts  down  her  bucket  and  stands  at  the  road- 
side like  a  post,  looking  with  all  her  eyes.  She  looks 
at  the  marching  multitude  with  beaming  curiosity.  Her 
littleness  embraces  that  immensity,  because  it  is  all  a 
part  of  Order.  A  peasant  who  has  stuck  to  his  work  in 
spite  of  the  festival  and  is  bent  over  the  deep  shadows 
of  his  field,  raises  himself  from  the  earth  which  is  so  like 
him,  and  turns  towards  the  golden  sun  the  shining  mon- 
strance of  his  face. 

****** 

But  what  is  this — this  sort  of  madman,  who  stands  in 
the  middle  of  the  road  and  looks  as  if,  all  by  himself, 
he  would  bar  the  crowd's  passage?  We  recognize  Bris- 
bille,  swaying  tipsily  in  the  twilight.  There  is  an  eddy 
and  a  muttering  in  the  flow. 

"D'you  want  to  know  where  all  that's  leading  you?" 


THE  BRAWLER  91 

he  roars,  and  nothing  more  can  be  heard  but  his  voice. 
"It's  leading  you  to  hell!  It's  the  old  rotten  society, 
with  the  profiteering  of  all  them  that  can,  and  the  stu- 
pidity of  the  rest!  To  hell,  I  tell  you!  To-morrow  look 
out  for  yourselves  I  To-morrow!" 

A  woman's  voice  cries  from  out  of  the  shadows,  in  a 
sort  of  scuffle,  "Be  quiet,  wicked  man!  You've  no  right 
to  frighten  folks!" 

But  the  drunkard  continues  to  shout  full-throated, 
"To-morrow!  To-morrow!  D'you  think  things  will  al- 
ways go  on  like  that?  You're  fit  for  killing!  To  hell!" 

Some  people  are  impressed  and  disappear  into  the  eve- 
ning. Those  who  are  marking  time  around  the  obscure 
fanatic  are  growling,  "He's  not  only  bad,  he's  mad,  the 
dirty  beast!" 

"It's  disgraceful,"  says  the  young  curate. 

Brisbille  goes  up  to  him.  "You  tell  me,  then,  you, 
what '11  happen  very  soon — Jesuit,  puppet,  land-shark! 
We  know  you,  you  and  your  filthy,  poisonous  trade!" 

"Say  that  again!" 

It  was  I  who  said  that.  Leaving  Marie's  arm  instinc- 
tively I  sprang  forward  and  planted  myself  before  the 
sinister  person.  After  the  horrified  murmur  which  fol- 
lowed the  insult,  a  great  silence  had  fallen  on  the  scene. 

Astounded,  and  his  face  suddenly  filling  with  fear, 
Brisbille  stumbles  and  beats  a  retreat. 

The  crowd  regains  confidence,  and  laughs,  and  con- 
gratulates me,  and  reviles  the  back  of  the  man  who  is 
sinking  in  the  stream. 

"You  were  fine!"  Marie  said  to  me  when  I  took  her 
arm  again,  slightly  trembling. 

I  returned  home  elated  by  my  energetic  act,  still  all 
of  a  tremor,  proud  and  happy.  I  have  obeyed  the 
prompting  of  my  blood.  It  was  the  great  ancestral  in- 
stinct which  made  me  clench  my  fists  and  throw  myself 
bodily,  like  a  weapon,  upon  the  enemy  of  all. 


92  LIGHT 

After  dinner,  naturally,  I  went  to  the  military  tattoo, 
at  which,  by  an  unpardonable  indifference,  I  have  not 
regularly  been  present,  although  these  patriotic  demon- 
strations have  been  organized  by  Monsieur  Joseph 
Boneas  and  his  League  of  Avengers.  A  long-drawn 
shudder,  shrill  and  sonorous,  took  flight  through  the 
main  streets,  filling  the  spectators  and  especially  the 
young  folks,  with  enthusiasm  for  the  great  and  glorious 
•deeds  of  the  future.  And  Petrolus,  in  the  front  row  of 
the  crowd,  was  striding  along  in  the  crimson  glow  of 
the  fairy-lamps — clad  in  a  visionary  uniform  of  red. 

I  remember  that  I  talked  a  great  deal  that  evening  in 
our  quarter,  and  then  in  the  house.  Our  quarter  is 
something  like  all  towns,  something  like  all  country- 
sides, something  like  it  is  everywhere — it  is  a  foreshort- 
ened picture  of  all  societies  in  the  old  universe,  as  my 
life  is  a  picture  of  life. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  STORM 

"THERE'S  going  to  be  war,"  said  Benoit,  on  our  door- 
steps in  July. 

"No,"  said  Crillon,  who  was  there,  too,  "I  know  well 
enough  there'll  be  war  some  day,  seeing  there's  always 
been  war  after  war  since  the  world  was  a  world,  and 
therefore  there'll  be  another;  but  just  now — at  once — 
a  big  job  like  that?  Nonsense!  It's  not  true.  No." 

Some  days  went  by,  tranquilly,  as  days  do.  Then 
the  great  story  reappeared,  increased  and  branched  out 
in  all  directions.  Austria,  Serbia,  the  ultimatum,  Rus- 
sia. The  notion  of  war  was  soon  everywhere.  You 
could  see  it  distracting  men  and  slackening  their  pace 
in  the  going  and  coming  of  work.  One  divined  it  behind 
the  doors  and  windows  of  the  houses. 

One  Saturday  evening,  when  Marie  and  I — like  most 
of  the  French— did  not  know  what  to  think,  and  talked 
emptily,  we  heard  the  town  crier,  who  performs  in  our 
quarter,  as  in  the  villages. 

"Ah!"  she  said. 

We  went  out  and  saw  in  the  distance  the  back  of  the 
man  who  was  tapping  a  drum.  His  smock  was  ballooned. 
He  seemed  pushed  aslant  by  the  wind,  stiffening  himself 
in  the  summer  twilight  to  sound  his  muffled  roll.  Al- 
though we  could  not  see  him  well  and  scarcely  heard 
him,  his  progress  through  the  street  had  something  grand 
about  it. 

Some  people  grouped  in  a  corner  said  to  us,  "The 
mobilization." 

93 


94  LIGHT 

No  other  word  left  their  lips.  I  went  from  group  to 
group  to  form  an  opinion,  but  people  drew  back  with 
sealed  faces,  or  mechanically  raised  their  arms  heaven- 
wards. And  we  knew  no  better  what  to  think  now  that 
we  were  at  last  informed. 

We  went  back  into  the  court,  the  passage,  the  room, 
and  then  I  said  to  Marie,  "I  go  on  the  ninth  day — a 
week,  day  after  to-morrow — to  my  depot  at  Motteville." 

She  looked  at  me,  as  though  doubtful. 

I  took  my  military  pay  book  from  the  wardrobe  and 
opened  it  on  the  table.  Leaning  against  each  other,  we 
looked  chastely  at  the  red  page  where  the  day  of  my 
joining  was  written,  and  we  spelled  it  all  out  as  if  we 
were  learning  to  read. 

Next  day  and  the  following  days  everybody  went  head- 
long to  meet  the  newspapers.  We  read  in  them — and 
under  their  different  titles  they  were  then  all  alike — 
that  a  great  and  unanimous  upspringing  was  electrifying 
France,  and  the  little  crowd  that  we  were  felt  itself  also 
caught  by  the  rush  of  enthusiasm  and  resolution.  We 
looked  at  each  other  with  shining  eyes  of  approval.  I, 
too,  I  heard  myself  cry,  "At  last!"  All  our  patriotism 
rose  to  the  surface. 

Our  quarter  grew  fevered.  We  made  speeches,  we 
proclaimed  the  moral  verities — or  explained  them.  The 
echoes  of  vast  or  petty  news  went  by  in  us.  In  the 
streets,  the  garrison  officers  walked,  grown  taller,  dis- 
closed. It  was  announced  that  Major  de  Trancheaux 
had  rejoined,  in  spite  of  his  years,  and  that  the  German 
armies  had  attacked  us  in  three  places  at  once.  We 
cursed  the  Kaiser  and  rejoiced  in  his  imminent  chastise- 
ment. In  the  middle  of  it  all  France  appeared  person- 
ified, and  we  reflected  on  her  great  life,  now  suddenly 
and  nakedly  exposed. 

"It  was  easy  to  foresee  this  war,  eh?"  said  Crillon. 

Monsieur  Joseph  Boneas  summarized  the  world-drama- 


THE  STORM  95 

W2  were  all  pacific  to  the  point  of  stupidity — little 
saints,  in  fact.  No  one  in  France  spoke  any  longer  of 
revenge,  nobody  wished  it,  nobody  thought  of  as  much 
as  getting  ready  for  war.  We  had  all  of  us  in  our  hearts 
only  dreams  of  universal  happiness  and  progress,  the 
while  Germany  secretly  prepared  everything  for  hurling 
herself  on  us.  "But,"  he  added,  he  also  carried  away, 
"she'll  get  it  in  the  neck,  and  that's  all  about  it!" 

The  desire  for  glory  was  making  its  way,  and  one 
cloudily  imagines  Napoleon  reborn. 

In  these  days,  only  the  mornings  and  evenings  re- 
turned as  usual,  everything  else  was  upside  down,  and 
seemed  temporary.  The  workers  moved  and  talked  in 
a  desert  of  idleness,  and  one  saw  invisible  changes  in 
the  scenery  of  our  valley  and  the  cavity  of  our  sky. 

We  saw  the  Cuirassiers  of  the  garrison  go  away  in  the 
evening.  The  massive  platoons  of  young-faced  horse- 
men, whose  solemn  obstruction  heavily  hammered  the 
stones  of  the  street,  were  separated  by  horses  loaded 
with  bales  of  forage,  by  regimental  wagons  and  baggage- 
carts,  which  rattled  unendingly.  We  formed  a  hedge- 
row along  the  twilight  causeways  and  watched  them  all 
disappear.  Suddenly  we  cheered  them.  The  thrill  that 
went  through  horses  and  men  straightened  them  up  and 
they  went  away  bigger — as  if  they  were  coming  back! 

"It's  magnificent,  how  warlike  we  are  in  France!"  said 
fevered  Marie,  squeezing  my  arm  with  all  her  might. 

The  departures,  of  individuals  or  groups,  multiplied. 
A  sort  of  methodical  and  inevitable  tree-blazing — con- 
ducted sometimes  by  the  police — ransacked  the  popula- 
tion and  thinned  it  from  day  to  day  around  the  women. 

Increasing  hurly-burly  was  everywhere — all  the  com- 
plicated measures  so  prudently  foreseen  and  so  inter- 
dependent; the  new  posters  on  top  of  the  old  ones,  the 
requisitioning  of  animals  and  places,  the  committees  and 
the  allowances,  the  booming  and  momentous  gales  of 


96  LIGHT 

motor-cars  filled  with  officers  and  aristocratic  nurses — 
so  many  lives  turned  inside  out  and  habits  cut  in  two. 
But  hope  bedazzled  all  anxieties  and  stopped  up  the 
gaps  for  the  moment.  And  we  admired  the  beauty  of 
military  orderliness  and  France's  preparation. 

Sometimes,  at  windows  or  street-corners,  there  were 
apparitions — people  covered  with  new  uniforms.  We 
had  known  them  in  vain,  and  did  not  know  them  at  first. 
Count  d'Orchamp,  lieutenant  in  the  Active  Reserves,  and 
Dr.  Bardoux,  town-major,  displaying  the  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor,  found  themselves  surrounded  by  re- 
spectful astonishment.  Adjutant  Marcassin  rose  sud- 
denly to  the  eyes  as  though  he  had  come  out  of  the 
earth;  Marcassin,  brand-new,  rigid,  in  blue  and  red, 
with  his  gold  stripe.  One  saw  him  afar,  fascinating  the 
groups  of  urchins  who  a  week  ago  threw  stones  at  him. 

"The  old  lot — the  little  ones,  and  the  middling  ones 
and  the  big  ones — all  getting  new  clothes  I"  says  a  tri- 
umphant woman  of  the  people. 

Another  said  it  was  the  coming  of  a  new  reign. 

****** 

From  the  Friday  onwards  I  was  engrossed  by  my  own 
departure.  It  was  that  day  that  we  went  to  buy  boots. 
We  admired  the  beautiful  arrangement  of  the  Cinema 
Hall  as  a  Red  Cross  hospital. 

"They've  thought  of  everything!"  said  Marie,  exam- 
ining the  collection  of  beds,  furniture,  and  costly  chests, 
rich  and  perfected  material,  all  arranged  with  delighted 
and  very  French  animation  by  a  team  of  attendants  who 
were  under  the  orders  of  young  Varennes,  a  pretty  hos- 
pital sergeant,  and  Monsieur  Lucien  Gozlan,  superin- 
tendent officer. 

A  center  of  life  had  created  itself  around  the  hospital. 
An  open  air  buffet  had  been  set  up  in  a  twinkling.  Apol- 
line  came  there — since  the  confusion  of  the  mobilization 
all  days  were  Sundays  for  her — to  provide  herself  with 


THE  STORM  97 

nips.  We  saw  her  hobbling  along  broadwise,  hugging 
her  half-pint  measure  in  her  short  turtle-like  arms,  the 
carrot  slices  of  her  cheek-bones  reddening  as  she  already 
staggered  with  hope. 

On  our  way  back,  as  we  passed  in  front  of  Fontan's 
cafe,  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  Fontan  himself,  assiduous, 
and  his  face  lubricated  with  a  smile.  Around  him  they 
were  singing  the  Marseillaise  in  the  smoke.  He  had  in- 
creased his  staff,  and  he  himself  was  making  himself  two, 
serving  and  serving.  His  business  was  growing  by  the 
fatality  of  things. 

When  we  got  back  to  our  street,  it  was  deserted,  as  of 
yore.  The  faraway  flutterings  of  the  Marseillaise  were 
dying.  We  heard  Brisbille,  drunk,  hammering  with  all 
his  might  on  his  anvil.  The  same  old  shadows  and  the 
same  lights  were  taking  their  places  in  the  houses.  It 
seemed  that  ordinary  life  was  coming  back  as  it  had 
been  into  our  corner  after  six  days  of  supernatural  dis- 
turbance, and  that  the  past  was  already  stronger  than 
the  present. 

Before  mounting  our  steps  we  saw,  crouching  in  front 
of  his  shop  door  by  the  light  of  a  lamp  that  was  hooded 
by  whirling  mosquitoes,  the  mass  of  Crillon,  who  was 
striving  to  attach  to  a  cudgel  a  flap  for  the  crushing  of 
flies.  Bent  upon  his  work,  his  gaping  mouth  let  hang 
the  half  of  a  globular  and  shining  tongue.  Seeing  us 
with  our  parcels,  he  threw  down  his  tackle,  roared  a  sigh, 
and  said,  "That  wood!  It's  touchwood,  yes.  A  butter- 
wire's  the  only  thing  for  cutting  that!" 

He  stood  up,  discouraged;  then  changing  his  idea,  and 
lighted  from  below  by  his  lamp  so  that  he  flamed  in  the 
evening,  he  extended  his  tawny-edged  arm  and  struck 
me  on  the  shoulder.  "We  said  war,  war,  all  along.  Very 
well,  we've  got  war,  haven't  we?" 

In  our  room  I  said  to  Marie,  "Only  three  days  left." 

Marie  came  and  went  and  talked  continually  round 


98  LIGHT 

me,  all  the  time  sewing  zinc  buttons  onto  the  new 
pouch,  stiff  with  its  dressing.  She  seemed  to  be  making 
an  effort  to  divert  me.  She  had  on  a  blue  blouse,  well- 
worn  and  soft,  half  open  at  the  neck.  Her  place  was  a 
great  one  in  that  gray  room. 

She  asked  me  if  I  should  be  a  long  time  away,  and 
then,  as  whenever  she  put  that  question  she  went  on, 
"Of  course,  you  don't  a  bit  know."  She  regretted  that 
I  was  only  a  private  like  everybody.  She  hoped  it  would 
be  over  long  before  the  winter. 

I  did  not  speak.  I  saw  that  she  was  looking  at  me 
secretly,  and  she  surrounded  me  pell-mell  with  the  news 
she  had  picked  up.  "D'you  know,  the  curate  has  gone 
as  a  private,  no  more  nor  less,  like  all  the  clergy.  And 
Monsieur  the  Marquis,  who's  a  year  past  the  age  already, 
has  written  to  the  Minister  of  War  to  put  himself  at  his 
disposition,  and  the  Minister  has  sent  a  courier  to  thank 
him."  She  finished  wrapping  up  and  tying  some  toilet 
items  and  also  some  provisions,  as  if  for  a  journey.  "All 
your  bits  of  things  are  there.  You'll  be  absolutely  short 
of  nothing,  you  see." 

Then  she  sat  down  and  sighed.  "Ah,"  she  said,  "war, 
after  all,  it's  more  terrible  than  one  imagines." 

She  seemed  to  be  having  tragic  presentiments.  Her 
face  was  paler  than  usual;  the  normal  lassitude  of  her 
features  was  full  of  gentleness;  her  eyelids  were  rosy  as 
roses.  Then  she  smiled  weakly  and  said,  "There  are 
some  young  men  of  eighteen  who've  enlisted,  but  only 
for  the  duration  of  the  war.  They've  done  right;  that'll 

be  useful  to  them  all  ways  later  in  life." 

****** 

On  Monday  we  hung  about  the  house  till  four  o'clock, 
when  I  left  it  to  go  to  the  Town  Hall,  and  then  to,  the 
station. 

At  the  Town  Hall  a  group  of  men,  like  myself,  were 
stamping  about.  They  were  loaded  with  parcels  in 


THE  STORM  99 

string;  new  boots  hung  from  their  shoulders.  I  went  up 
to  mix  with  my  new  companions.  Tudor  was  topped 
by  an  artilleryman's  cap.  Monsieur  Mielvaque  was 
bustling  about,  embarrassed — exactly  as  at  the  factory — 
by  the  papers  he  held  in  his  hand;  and  he  had  ex- 
changed his  eyeglasses  for  spectacles,  which  stood  for 
the  beginning  of  his  uniform.  Every  man  talked  about 
himself,  and  gave  details  concerning  his  regiment,  his 
depot,  and  some  personal  peculiarity. 

"I'm  staying,"  says  the  adjutant  master-at-arms,  who 
rises  impeccably  in  his  active  service  uniform,  amid  the 
bustle  and  the  neutral-tinted  groups;  "I'm  not  going. 
I'm  the  owner  of  my  rank,  and  they  haven't  got  the 
right  to  send  me  to  join  the  army." 

We  waited  long,  and  some  hours  went  by.  A  rumor 
went  round  that  we  should  not  go  till  the  next  day.  But 
suddenly  there  was  silence,  a  stiffening  up,  and  a  mili- 
tary salute  all  round.  The  door  had  just  opened  to  admit 
Major  de  Trancheaux. 

The  women  drew  aside.  A  civilian  who  was  on  the 
lookout  for  him  went  up,  hat  in  hand,  and  spoke  to  him 
in  undertones. 

"But,  my  friend,"  cried  the  Major,  quitting  the  im- 
portunate with  a  quite  military  abruptness,  "it's  not 
worth  while.  In  two  months  the  war  will  be  over!" 

He  came  up  to  us.  He  was  wearing  a  white  band  on 
his  cap. 

"He's  in  command  at  the  station,"  they  say. 

He  gave  us  a  patriotic  address,  brief  and  spirited.  He 
spoke  of  the  great  revenge  so  long  awaited  by  French 
hearts,  assured  us  that  we  should  all  be  proud,  later,  to 
have  lived  in  those  hours,  thrilled  us  all,  and  added, 
"Come,  say  good-by  to  your  folks.  No  more  women 
now.  And  let's  be  off,  for  I'm  going  with  you  as  far  as 
the  station." 

A   last  confused   scrimmage — with   moist  sounds  of 


ioo  LIGHT 

kisses  and  litanies  of  advice — closed  up  in  the  great 
public  hall. 

When  I  had  embraced  Marie  I  joined  these  who  were 
falling  in  near  the  road.  We  went  off  in  files  of  four. 
All  the  causeways  were  garnished  with  people,  because 
of  us;  and  at  that  moment  I  felt  a  lofty  emotion  and  a 
real  thrill  of  glory. 

At  the  corner  of  a  street  I  saw  Crillon  and  Marie,  who 
had  run  on  ahead  to  take  their  stand  on  our  route.  They 
waved  to  me. 

"Now,  keep  your  peckers  up,  boys!  You're  not  dead 
yet,  eh!"  Crillon  called  to  us. 

Marie  was  looking  at  me  and  could  not  speak. 

"In  step!  One-two!"  cried  Adjutant  Marcassin, 
striding  along  the  detachment. 

We  crossed  our  quarter  as  the  day  declined  over  it. 
The  countryman  who  was  walking  beside  me  shook  his 
head  and  in  the  dusky  immensity  among  the  world  of 
things  we  were  leaving,  with  big  regular  steps,  fused  into 
one  single  step,  he  scattered  wondering  words.  "Frenzy, 
it  is,"  he  murmured.  "/  haven't  had  time  to  understand 
it  yet.  And  yet,  you  know,  there  are  some  that  say, 
I  understand;  well,  I'm  telling  you,  that's  not  possible." 

The  station — but  we  do  not  stop.  They  have  opened 
before  us  the  long  yellow  barrier  which  is  never  opened. 
They  make  us  cross  the  labyrinth  of  hazy  rails,  and 
crowd  us  along  a  dark,  covered  platform  between  iron 
pillars. 

And  there,  suddenly,  we  see  that  we  are  alone. 
****** 

The  town — and  life — are  yonder,  beyond  that  dismal 
plain  of  rails,  paths,  low  buildings  and  mists  which  sur- 
rounds us  to  the  end  of  sight.  A  chilliness  is  edging  in 
along  with  twilight,  and  falling  on  our  perspiration  and 
our  enthusiasm.  We  fidget  and  wait.  It  goes  gray,  and 
then  black.  The  night  comes  to  imprison  us  in  its  in- 


THE  STORM  101 

finite  narrowness.  We  shiver  and  can  see  nothing  more. 
With  difficulty  I  can  make  out,  along  our  trampled  plat- 
form, a  dark  flock,  the  buzz  of  voices,  the  smell  of  to- 
bacco. Here  and  there  a  match  flame  or  the  red  point 
of  a  cigarette  makes  some  face  phosphorescent.  And  we 
wait,  unoccupied,  and  weary  of  waiting,  until  we  sit 
down,  close-pressed  against  each  other,  in  the  dark  and 
the  desert. 

Some  hours  later  Adjutant  Marcassin  comes  forward, 
a  lantern  in  his  hand,  and  in  a  strident  voice  calls  the 
roll.  Then  he  goes  away,  and  we  begin  again  to  wait. 

At  ten  o'clock,  after  several  false  alarms,  the  right 
train  is  announced.  It  comes  up,  distending  as  it  comes, 
black  and  red.  It  is  already  crowded,  and  it  screams. 
It  stops,  and  turns  the  platform  into  a  street.  We  climb 
up  and  put  ourselves  away — not  without  glimpses,  by  the 
light  of  lanterns  moving  here  and  there,  of  some  chalk 
sketches  on  the  carriages — heads  of  pigs  in  spiked  hel- 
mets, and  the  inscription,  "To  Berlin!" — the  only  things 
which  slightly  indicate  where  we  are  going. 

The  train  sets  off.  We  who  have  just  got  in  crowd  to 
the  windows  and  try  to  look  outside,  towards  the  level 
crossing  where,  perhaps,  the  people  in  whom  we  live  are 
still  watching  for  us;  but  the  eye  can  no  longer  pick  up 
anything  but  a  vague  stirring,  shaded  with  crayon  and 
jumbled  with  nature.  We  are  blind  and  we  fall  back 
each  to  his  place.  When  we  are  enveloped  in  the  iron- 
hammered  rumble  of  advance,  we  fix  up  our  luggage, 
arrange  ourselves  for  the  night,  smoke,  drink  and  talk. 
Badly  lighted  and  opaque  with  fumes,  the  compartment 
might  be  a  corner  of  a  tavern  that  has  been  caught  up 
and  swept  away  into  the  unknown. 

Some  conversation  mixes  its  rumble  with  that  of  the 
train.  My  neighbors  talk  about  crops  and  sunshine  and 
rain.  Others,  scoffers  and  Parisians,  speak  of  popular 
people  and  principally  of  music-hall  singers.  Others 


102  LIGHT 

sleep,  lying  somehow  or  other  on  the  wood.  Their  open 
mouths  make  murmur,  and  the  oscillation  jerks  them 
without  tearing  them  from  their  torpor.  I  go  over  in 
my  thoughts  the  details  of  the  last  day,  and  even  my 
memories  of  times  gone  by  when  there  was  nothing 
going  on. 

****** 

We  traveled  all  night.  At  long  intervals  some  one 
would  let  a  window  drop  at  a  station;  a  damp  and 
cavernous  breath  would  penetrate  the  overdone  atmos- 
phere of  the  carriage.  We  saw  darkness  and  some  por- 
ter's lantern  dancing  in  the  abyss  of  night. 

Several  times  we  made  very  long  halts — to  let  the 
trains  of  regular  troops  go  by.  In  one  station  where  our 
train  stood  for  hours,  we  saw  several  of  them  go  roar- 
ing by  in  succession.  Their  speed  blurred  the  parti- 
tions between  the  windows  and  the  huge  vertebrae  of  the 
coaches,  seeming  to  blend  together  the  soldiers  huddled 
there;  and  the  glance  which  plunged  into  the  train's  in- 
terior descried,  in  its  feeble  and  whirling  illumination,  a 
long,  continuous  and  tremulous  chain,  clad  in  blue  and 
red.  Several  times  on  the  journey  we  got  glimpses  of 
these  interminable  lengths  of  humanity,  hurled  by  ma- 
chinery from  everywhere  to  the  frontiers,  and  almost 
towing  each  other. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  WALLS 

AT  daybreak  there  was  a  stop,  and  they  said  to  us, 
"You're  there." 

We  got  out,  yawning,  our  teeth  chattering,  and  grimy 
with  night,  on  to  a  platform  black-smudged  by  drizzling 
rain,  in  the  middle  of  a  sheet  of  mist  which  was  torn  by 
blasts  of  distant  whistling.  Disinterred  from  the  car- 
riages, our  shadows  heaped  themselves  there  and  waited, 
like  bales  of  goods  in  the  dawn's  winter. 

Adjutant  Marcassin,  who  had  gone  in  quest  of  in- 
structions, returned  at  last.  "It's  that  way." 

He  formed  us  in  fours.  "Forward!  Straighten  up! 
Keep  step!  Look  as  if  you  had  something  about  you." 

The  rhythm  of  the  step  pulled  at  our  feet  and  dove- 
tailed us  together.  The  adjutant  marched  apart  along 
the  little  column.  Questioned  by  one  of  us  who  knew 
him  intimately,  he  made  no  reply.  From  time  to  time 
he  threw  a  quick  glance,  like  the  flick  of  a  whip,  to  make 
sure  that  we  were  in  step. 

I  thought  I  was  going  again  to  the  old  barracks,  where 
I  did  my  term  of  service,  but  I  had  a  sadder  disappoint- 
ment than  was  reasonable.  Across  some  land  where  build- 
ing was  going  on,  deeply  trenched,  beplastered  and  soiled 
with  white,  we  arrived  at  a  new  barracks,  sinisterly  white 
in  a  velvet  pall  of  fog.  In  front  of  the  freshly  painted 
gate  there  was  already  a  crowd  of  men  like  us,  clothed 
in  subdued  civilian  hues  in  the  coppered  dust  of  the  first 
rays  of  day. 

103 


104  LIGHT 

They  made  us  sit  on  forms  round  the  guard  room. 
We  waited  there  all  the  day.  As  the  scorching  sun  went 
round  it  forced  us  to  change  our  places  several  times. 
We  ate  with  our  knees  for  tables,  and  as  I  undid  the 
little  parcels  that  Marie  had  made,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  was  touching  her  hands.  When  the  evening  had  fallen, 
a  passing  officer  noticed  us,  made  inquiries,  and  we  were 
mustered.  We  plunged  into  the  night  of  the  building. 
Our  feet  stumbled  and  climbed  helter-skelter,  between 
pitched  walls  up  the  steps  of  a  damp  staircase,  which 
smelt  of  stale  tobacco  and  gas-tar,  like  all  barracks. 
They  led  us  into  a  dark  corridor,  pierced  by  little  pale 
blue  windows,  where  draughts  came  and  went  violently, 
a  corridor  spotted  at  each  end  by  naked  gas-jets,  their 
flames  buffeted  and  snarling. 

A  lighted  doorway  was  stoppered  by  a  throng — the 
store-room.  I  ended  by  getting  in  in  my  turn,  thanks 
to  the  pressure  of  the  compact  file  which  followed  me, 
and  pushed  me  like  a  spiral  spring.  Some  barrack  ser- 
geants were  exerting  themselves  authoritatively  among 
piles  of  new-smelling  clothes,  of  caps  and  glittering 
equipment.  Geared  into  the  jerky  hustle  from  which  we 
detached  ourselves  one  by  one,  I  made  the  tour  of  the 
place,  and  came  out  of  it  wearing  red  trousers  and  carry- 
ing my  civilian  clothes,  and  a  blue  coat  on  my  arm;  and 
not  daring  to  pijt  on  either  my  hat  or  the  military  cap 
that  I  held  in  my  hand. 

We  have  dressed  ourselves  all  alike.  I  look  at  the 
others  since  I  cannot  look  at  myself,  and  thus  I  see  my- 
self dimly.  Gloomily  we  eat  stew,  by  the  miserable 
illumination  of  a  candle,  in  the  dull  desert  of  the  mess 
room.  Then,  our  mess-tins  cleaned,  we  go  down  to  the 
great  yard,  gray  and  stagnant.  Just  as  we  pour  out 
into  it,  there  is  the  clash  of  a  closing  gate  and  a  tight- 
ened chain.  An  armed  sentry  goes  up  and  down  before 
the  gate.  It  is  forbidden  to  go  out  under  pain  of  court- 


THE  WALLS  105 

martial.  To  westward,  beyond  some  indistinct  iand,  we 
see  the  buried  station,  reddening  and  smoking  like  a  fac- 
tory, and  sending  out  rusty  flashes.  On  the  other  side 
is  the  trench  of  a  street;  and  in  its  extended  hollow  are 
the  bright  points  of  some  windows  and  the  radiance  of 
a  shop.  With  my  face  between  the  bars  of  the  gate, 
I  look  on  this  reflection  of  the  other  life;  then  I  go  back 
to  the  black  staircase,  the  corridor  and  the  dormitory, 
I  who  am  something  and  yet  am  nothing,  like  a  drop  of 
water  in  a  river. 

£  4*  4>  £  4*  £ 

We  stretch  ourselves  on  straw,  in  thin  blankets.  I  go 
to  sleep  with  my  head  on  the  bundle  of  my  civilian 
clothes.  In  the  morning  I  find  myself  again  and  throw 
off  a  long  dream — all  at  once  impenetrable. 

My  neighbor,  sitting  on  his  straw  with  his  hair  over 
his  nose,  is  occupied  in  scratching  his  feet.  He  yawns 

into  tears,  and  says  to  me,  "I've  dreamt  about  myself." 
****** 

Several  days  followed  each  other.  We  remained  im- 
prisoned in  the  barracks,  in  ignorance.  The  only  events 
were  those  related  by  the  newspapers  which  were  handed 
to  us  through  the  gates  in  the  morning.  The  war  got  on 
very  slowly;  it  immobilized  itself,  and  we — we  did  noth- 
ing, between  the  roll-calls,  the  parades,  and  from  time 
to  time  some  cleaning  fatigues.  We  could  not  go  into 
the  town,  and  we  waited  for  the  evening — standing,  sit- 
ting, strolling  in  the  mess  room  (which  never  seemed 
empty,  so  strong  was  the  smell  that  filled  it),  wandering 
about  the  dark  stairs  and  the  corridors  dark  as  iron,  or 
in  the  yard,  or  as  far  as  the  gates,  or  the  kitchens,  which 
last  were  at  the  rear  of  the  buildings,  and  smelt  in  turns 
throughout  the  day  of  coffee-grounds  and  grease. 

We  said  that  perhaps,  undoubtedly  indeed,  we  should 
stay  there  till  the  end  of  the  war.  We  moped.  When 
we  went  to  bed  we  were  tired  with  standing  still,  or  with 


io6  LIGHT 

walking  too  slowly.    We  should  have  liked  to  go  to  the 
front. 

Marcassin,  housed  in  the  company  office,  was  never 
far  away,  and  kept  an  eye  on  us  in  silence.  One  day 
I  was  sharply  rebuked  by  him  for  having  turned  the 
water  on  in  the  lavatory  at  a  time  other  than  placarded. 
Detected,  I  had  to  stand  before  him  at  attention.  He 
asked  me  in  coarse  language  if  I  knew  how  to  read, 
talked  of  punishment,  and  added,  "Don't  do  it  again!" 
This  tirade,  perhaps  justified  on  the  whole,  but  tactlessly 
uttered  by  the  quondam  Petrolus,  humiliated  me  deeply 
and  left  me  gloomy  all  the  day.  Some  other  incidents 
showed  me  that  I  no  longer  belonged  to  myself. 
****** 

One  day,  after  morning  parade,  when  the  company 
was  breaking  off,  a  Parisian  of  our  section  went  up  to 
Marcassin  and  asked  him,  "Adjutant,  we  should  like  to 
know  if  we  are  going  away." 

The  officer  took  it  in  bad  part.  "To  know?  Always 
wanting  to  know!"  he  cried;  "it's  a  disease  in  France, 
this  wanting  to  know.  Get  it  well  into  your  heads  that 
you  -won't  know!  We  shall  do  the  knowing  for  you! 
Words  are  done  with.  There's  something  else  beginning, 
and  that's  discipline  and  silence." 

The  zeal  we  had  felt  for  going  to  the  front  cooled  off 
in  a  few  days.  One  or  two  well-defined  cases  of  shirk- 
ing were  infectious,  and  you  heard  this  refrain  again 
and  again:  "As  long  as  the  others  are  dodging,  I  should 
be  an  ass  not  to  do  it,  too." 

But  there  was  quite  a  multitude  who  never  said  any- 
thing. 

At  last  a  reinforcement  draft  was  posted;  old  and 
young  promiscuously — a  list  worked  out  in  the  office 
amidst  a  seesaw  of  intrigue.  Protests  were  raised,  and 
fell  back  again  into  the  tranquillity  of  the  depot. 

I  abode  there  forty-five  days.    Towards  the  middle  of 


THE  WALLS  107 

September,  we  were  allowed  to  go  out  after  the  evening 
meal  and  Sundays  as  well.  We  used  to  go  in  the  eve- 
ning to  the  Town  Hall  to  read  the  despatches  posted 
there;  they  were  as  uniform  and  monotonous  as  rain. 
Then  a  friend  and  I  would  go  to  the  cafe,  keeping  step, 
our  arms  similarly  swinging,  exchanging  some  words, 
idle,  and  vaguely  divided  into  two  men.  Or  we  went 
into  it  in  a  body,  which  isolated  me.  The  saloon  of  the 
cafe  enclosed  the  same  odors  as  Fontan's;  and  while 
I  stayed  there,  sunk  in  the  soft  seat,  my  boots  grating 
on  the  tiled  floor,  my  eye  on  the  white  marble,  it  was 
like  a  strip  of  a  long  dream  of  the  past,  a  scanty  memory 
that  clothed  me.  There  I  used  to  write  to  Marie,  and 
there  I  read  again  the  letters  I  received  from  her,  in 
which  she  said,  "Nothing  has  changed  since  you  were 
away." 

One  Sunday,  when  I  was  beached  on  a  seat  in  the 
square  and  weeping  with  yawns  under  the  empty  sky, 
I  saw  a  young  woman  go  by.  By  reason  of  some  re- 
semblance in  outline,  I  thought  of  a  woman  who  had 
loved  me.  I  recalled  the  period  when  life  was  life,  and 
that  beautiful  caressing  body  of  once-on-a-time.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  held  her  in  my  arms,  so  close  that 
I  felt  her  breath,  like  velvet,  on  my  face. 

We  got  a  glimpse  of  the  captain  at  one  review.  Once 
there  was  talk  of  a  new  draft  for  the  front,  but  it  was  a 
false  rumor.  Then  we  said,  "There'll  never  be  any  war 
for  us,"  and  that  was  a  relief. 

My  name  flashed  to  my  eyes  in  a  departure  list  posted 
on  the  wall.  My  name  was  read  out  at  morning  parade, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  the  only  one  they  read. 
I  had  no  time  to  get  ready.  In  the  evening  of  the  next 
day  our  detachment  passed  out  of  the  barracks  by  the 
little  gate. 


CHAPTER  XI 
AT  THE  WORLD'S  END 

"WE'RE  going  to  Alsace,"  said  the  well-informed.  "To 
the  Somme,"  said  the  better-informed,  louder. 

We  traveled  thirty-six  hours  on  the  floor  of  a  cattle 
truck,  wedged  and  paralyzed  in  the  vice  of  knapsacks, 
pouches,  weapons  and  moist  bodies.  At  long  intervals 
the  train  would  begin  to  move  on  again.  It  has  left  an 
impression  with  me  that  it  was  chiefly  motionless. 

We  got  out,  one  afternoon,  under  a  sky  crowded  with 
masses  of  darkness,  in  a  station  recently  bombarded  and 
smashed,  and  its  roof  left  like  a  fish-bone.  It  over- 
looked a  half-destroyed  town,  where,  amid  a  foul  white- 
ness of  ruin,  a  few  families  were  making  shift  to  live  in 
the  rain. 

"  Tears  we're  in  the  Aisne  country,"  they  said. 

A  downpour  was  in  progress.  Shivering,  we  busied 
ourselves  with  unloading  and  distributing  bread,  our 
hands  numbed  and  wet,  and  then  ate  it  hurriedly  while 
we  stood  in  the  road,  which  gleamed  with  heavy  parallel 
brush-strokes  of  gray  paint  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see. 
Each  looked  after  himself,  with  hardly  a  thought  for  the 
next  man.  On  each  side  of  the  road  were  deserts  with- 
out limits,  flat  and  flabby,  with  trees  like  posts,  and  rusty 
fields  patched  with  green  mud. 

"Shoulder  packs,  and  forward!"  Adjutant  Marcassin 
ordered. 

Where  were  we  going?  No  one  knew.  We  crossed 
the  rest  of  the  village.  The  Germans  had  occupied  it 

108 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  109 

during  the  August  retreat.  It  was  destroyed,  and  the 
destruction  was  beginning  to  live,  to  cover  itself  with 
fresh  wreckage  and  dung,  to  smoke  and  consume  itself. 
The  rain  had  ceased  in  melamcholy.  Up  aloft  in  the 
clearings  of  the  sky,  clusters  of  shrapnel  stippled  the 
air  round  aeroplanes,  and  the  detonations  reached  us, 
far  and  fine.  Along  the  sodden  road  we  met  Red  Cross 
motor  ambulances,  rushing  on  rails  of  mud,  but  we  could 
not  see  inside  them.  In  the  first  stages  we  were  inter- 
ested in  everything,  and  asked  questions,  like  foreigners. 
A  man  who  had  been  wounded  and  was  rejoining  the 
regiment  with  us  answered  us  from  time  to  time,  and 
invariably  added,  "That's  nothing;  you'll  see  in  a  bit." 
Then  the  march  made  men  retire  into  themselves. 

My  knapsack,  so  ingeniously  compact;  my  cartridge- 
bags  so  ferociously  full;  my  round  pouches  with  their 
keen-edged  straps,  all  jostled  and  then  wounded  my  back 
at  each  step.  The  pain  quickly  became  acute,  unbear- 
able. I  was  suffocated  and  blinded  by  a  mask  of  sweat, 
in  spite  of  the  lashing  moisture,  and  I  soon  felt  that  I 
should  not  arrive  at  the  end  of  the  fifty  minutes'  march. 
But  I  did  all  the  same,  because  I  had  no  reason  for 
stopping  at  any  one  second  sooner  than  another,  and 
because  I  could  thus  always  do  one  step  more.  I  knew 
later  that  this  is  nearly  always  the  mechanical  reason 
which  accounts  for  soldiers  completing  superhuman 
physical  efforts  to  the  very  end. 

The  cold  blast  benumbed  us,  while  we  dragged  our- 
selves through  the  softened  plains  which  evening  was 
darkening.  At  one  halt  I  saw  one  of  those  men  who 
used  to  agitate  at  the  depot  to  be  sent  to  the  front.  He 
had  sunk  down  at  the  foot  of  the  stacked  rifles;  exertion 
had  made  him  almost  unrecognizable,  and  he  told  me 
that  he  had  had  enough  of  war!  And  little  Melusson, 
whom  I  once  used  to  see  at  Viviers,  lifted  to  me  his  yel- 
lowish face,  sweat-soaked,  where  the  folds  of  the  eyelids 


no  LIGHT 

seemed  drawn  with  red  crayon,  and  informed  me  that  he 
should  report  sick  the  next  day. 

After  four  marches  of  despairing  length  under  a  light- 
less  sky  over  a  colorless  earth,  we  stood  for  two  hours, 
hot  and  damp,  at  the  chilly  top  of  a  hill,  where  a  village 
was  beginning.  An  epidemic  of  gloom  overspread  us. 
Why  were  we  stopped  in  that  way?  No  one  knew  any- 
thing. 

In  the  evening  we  engulfed  ourselves  in  the  village. 
But  they  halted  us  in  a  street.  The  sky  had  heavily 
darkened.  The  fronts  of  the  houses  had  taken  on  a 
greenish  hue  and  reflected  and  rooted  themselves  in  the 
running  water  of  the  street.  The  market-place  curved 
around  in  front  of  us — a  black  space  with  shining  tracks, 
like  an  old  mirror  to  which  the  silvering  only  clings  in 
strips. 

At  last,  night  fully  come,  they  bade  us  march.  They 
made  us  go  forward  and  then  draw  back,  with  loud 
words  of  command,  in  the  tunnels  of  streets,  in  alleys 
and  yards.  By  lantern  light  they  divided  us  into  squads. 
I  was  assigned  to  the  eleventh,  quartered  in  a  village 
whose  still  standing  parts  appeared  quite  new.  Adjutant 
Marcassin  became  my  section  chief.  I  was  secretly  glad 
of  this;  for  in  the  gloomy  confusion  we  stuck  closely  to 
those  we  knew,  as  dogs  do. 

The  new  comrades  of  the  squad — they  lodged  in  the 
stable,  which  was  open  as  a  cage — explained  to  me  that 
we  were  a  long  way  from  the  front,  over  six  miles;  that 
we  should  have  four  days'  rest  and  then  go  on  yonder 
to  occupy  the  trenches  at  the  glass  works.  They  said  it 
would  be  like  that,  in  shifts  of  four  days,  to  the  end  of 
the  war,  and  that,  moreover,  one  had  not  to  worry. 

These  words  comforted  the  newcomers,  adrift  here 
and  there  in  the  straw.  Their  weariness  was  alleviated. 
They  set  about  writing  and  card-playing.  That  evening 
I  dated  my  letter  to  Marie  "at  the  Front,"  with  a  flour- 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  111 

ish  of  pride.    I  understood  that  glory  consists  in  doing 

what  others  have  done,  in  being  able  to  say,  "I,  too." 
****** 

Three  days  went  by  in  this  "rest  camp."  I  got  used 
to  an  existence  crowded  with  exercises  in  which  we  were 
living  gear-wheels;  crowded  also  with  fatigues;  already 
I  was  forgetting  my  previous  existence. 

On  the  Friday  at  three  o'clock  we  were  paraded  in 
marching  order  in  the  school  yard.  Great  stones,  de- 
tached from  walls  and  arches,  lay  about  the  forsaken 
grass  like  tombs.  Hustled  by  the  wind,  we  were  re- 
viewed by  the  captain,  who  fumbled  in  our  cartridge- 
pouches  and  knapsacks  with  the  intention  of  giving  im- 
prisonment to  those  who  had  not  the  right  quantity  of 
cartridges  and  iron  rations.  In  the  evening  we  set  off, 
laughing  and  singing,  along  the  great  curves  of  the  road. 
At  night  we  arrived  swaying  with  fatigue  and  savagely 
silent,  at  a  slippery  and  interminable  ascent  which 
stood  out  against  stormy  rain-clouds  as  heavy  as  dung- 
hills. Many  dark  masses  stumbled  and  fell  with  a  crash 
of  accoutrements  on  that  huge  sloping  sewer.  As  they 
swarmed  up  the  chaos  of  oblique  darkness  which  pushed 
them  back,  the  men  gave  signs  of  exhaustion  and  anger. 
Cries  of  "Forward!  Forward!"  surrounded  us  on  all 
sides,  harsh  cries  like  barks,  and  I  heard,  near  me,  Ad- 
jutant Marcassin's  voice,  growling,  "What  about  it,  then? 
It's  for  France's  sake!"  Arrived  at  the  top  of  the  hill, 
we  went  down  the  other  slope.  The  order  came  to  put 
pipes  out  and  advance  in  silence.  A  world  of  noises 
was  coming  to  life  in  the  distance. 

A  gateway  made  its  sudden  appearance  in  the  night. 
We  scattered  among  flat  buildings,  whose  walls  here  and 
there  showed  black  holes,  like  ovens,  while  the  approaches 
were  obstructed  with  plaster  rubbish  and  nail-studded 
beams.  In  places  the  recent  collapse  of  stones,  cement 


112  LIGHT 

and  plaster  had  laid  on  the  bricks  a  new  and  vivid  white- 
ness that  was  visible  in  the  dark. 

"It's  the  glass  works,"  said  a  soldier  to  me. 

We  halted  a  moment  in  a  passage  whose  walls  and 
windows  were  broken,  where  we  could  not  make  a  step 
or  sit  down  without  breaking  glass.  We  left  the  works 
by  sticky  footpaths,  full  of  rubbish  at  first,  and  then  of 
mud.  Across  marshy  flats,  chilly  and  sinister,  obscurely 
lighted  by  the  night,  we  came  to  the  edge  of  an  immense 
and  pallid  crater.  The  depths  of  this  abyss  were  popu- 
lated with  glimmers  and  murmurs;  and  all  around  a 
soaked  and  ink-black  expanse  of  country  glistened  to 
infinity. 

"It's  the  quarry,"  they  informed  me. 

Our  endless  and  bottomless  march  continued.  Sliding 
and  slipping  we  descended,  burying  ourselves  in  these 
profundities  and  gropingly  encountering  the  hurly-burly 
of  a  convoy  of  carts  and  the  advance  guard  of  the  regi- 
ment we  were  relieving.  We  passed  heaped-up  hutments 
at  the  foot  of  the  circular  chalky  cliff  that  we  could  see 
dimly  drawn  among  the  black  circles  of  space.  The 
sound  of  shots  drew  near  and  multiplied  on  all  sides; 
the  vibration  of  artillery  fire  outspread  under  our  feet 
and  over  our  heads. 

I  found  myself  suddenly  in  front  of  a  narrow  and 
muddy  ravine  into  which  the  others  were  plunging  one 
by  one. 

"It's  the  trench,"  whispered  the  man  who  was  follow- 
ing me;  "you  can  see  its  beginning,  but  you  never  see  its 
blinking  end.  Anyway,  on  you  go  1 " 

We  followed  the  trench  along  for  three  hours.  For 
three  hours  we  continued  to  immerse  ourselves  in  dis- 
tance and  solitude,  to  immure  ourselves  in  night,  scrap- 
ing its  walls  with  our  loads,  and  sometimes  violently 
pulled  up,  where  the  defile  shrunk  into  strangulation  by 
the  sudden  wedging  of  our  pouches.  It  seemed  as  if 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  113 

the  earth  tried  continually  to  clasp  and  choke  us,  that 
sometimes  it  roughly  struck  us.  Above  the  unknown 
plains  in  which  we  were  hiding,  space  was  shot-riddled. 
A  few  star-shells  were  softly  whitening  some  sections  of 
the  night,  revealing  the  excavations'  wet  entrails  and 
conjuring  up  a  file  of  heavy  shadows,  borne  down  by 
lofty  burdens,  tramping  in  a  black  and  black-bunged 
impasse,  and  jolting  against  the  eddies.  When  great 
guns  were  discharged  all  the  vault  of  heaven  was  lighted 
and  lifted  and  then  fell  darkly  back. 

"Lookout!    The  open  crossing!" 

A  wall  of  earth  rose  in  tiers  before  us.  There  was 
no  outlet.  The  trench  came  to  a  sudden  end — to  be 
resumed  farther  on,  it  seemed. 

"Why?"  I  asked,  mechanically. 

They  explained  to  me:  "It's  like  that."  And  they 
added,  "You  stoop  down  and  get  a  move  on." 

The  men  climbed  the  soft  steps  with  bent  heads,  made 
their  rush  one  by  one  and  ran  hard  into  the  belt  whose 
only  remaining  defense  was  the  dark.  The  thunder  of 
shrapnel  that  shattered  and  dazzled  the  air  here  and 
there  showed  me  too  frightfully  how  fragile  we  all  were. 
In  spite  of  the  fatigue  clinging  to  my  limbs,  I  sprang 
forward  in  my  turn  with  all  my  strength,  fiercely  pur- 
suing the  signs  of  an  overloaded  and  rattling  body  which 
ran  in  front;  and  I  found  myself  again  in  a  trench, 
breathless.  In  my  passage  I  had  glimpses  of  a  somber 
field,  bullet-smacked  and  hole  pierced,  with  silent  blots 
outspread  or  doubled,  and  a  litter  of  crosses  and  posts, 
as  black  and  fantastic  as  tall  torches  extinguished,  all 
under  a  firmament  where  day  and  night  immensely 
fought. 

"I  believe  I  saw  some  corpses,"  I  said  to  him  who 
marched  in  front  of  me;  and  there  was  a  break  in  my 
voice. 


114  LIGHT 

"You've  just  left  your  village,"  he  replied;  "you  bet 
there's  some  stiffs  about  here!" 

I  laughed  also,  in  the  delight  of  having  got  past.  We 
began  again  to  march  one  behind  another,  swaying 
about,  hustled  by  the  narrowness  of  this  furrow  they 
had  scooped  to  the  ancient  depth  of  a  grave,  panting 
under  the  load,  dragged  towards  the  earth  by  the  earth 
and  pushed  forward  by  will-power,  under  a  sky  shrilling 
with  the  dizzy  flight  of  bullets,  tiger-striped  with  red, 
and  in  some  seconds  saturated  with  light.  At  forks  in 
the  way  we  turned  sometimes  right  and  sometimes  left, 
all  touching  each  other,  the  whole  huge  body  of  the 
company  fleeing  blindly  towards  its  bourne. 

For  the  last  time  they  halted  us  in  the  middle  of  the 
night.  I  was  so  weary  that  I  propped  my  knees  against 
the  wet  wall  and  remained  kneeling  for  some  blissful 
minutes. 

My  sentry  turn  began  immediately,  and  the  lieutenant 
posted  me  at  a  loophole.  He  made  me  put  my  face  to 
the  hole  and  explained  to  me  that  there  was  a  wooded 
slope,  right  in  front  of  us,  of  which  the  bottom  was 
occupied  by  the  enemy;  and  to  the  right  of  us,  three 
hundred  yards  away,  the  Chauny  road — "They're  there." 
I  had  to  watch  the  black  hollow  of  the  little  wood,  and 
at  every  star-shell  the  creamy  expanse  which  divided 
our  refuge  from  the  distant  hazy  railing  of  the  trees 
along  the  road.  He  told  me  what  to  do  in  case  of  alarm 
and  left  me  quite  alone. 

Alone,  I  shivered.  Fatigue  had  emptied  my  head  and 
was  weighing  on  my  heart.  Going  close  to  the  loophole, 
I  opened  my  eyes  wide  through  the  enemy  night,  the 
fathomless,  thinking  night. 

I  thought  I  could  see  some  of  the  dim  shadows  of  the 
plain  moving,  and  some  in  the  chasm  of  the  wood,  and 
everywhere!  Affected  by  terror  and  a  sense  of  my  huge 
responsibility,  I  could  hardly  stifle  a  cry  of  anguish. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  115 

But  they  did  not  move.  The  fearful  preparations  of  the 
shades  vanished  before  my  eyes  and  the  stillness  of  life- 
less things  showed  itself  to  me. 

I  had  neither  knapsack  nor  pouches,  and  I  wrapped 
myself  in  my  blanket.  I  remained  at  ease,  encircled  to 
the  horizon  by  the  machinery  of  war,  surmounted  by 
claps  of  living  thunder.  Very  gently,  my  vigil  relieved 
and  calmed  me.  I  remembered  nothing  more  about 
myself.  I  applied  myself  to  watching.  I  saw  nothing, 
I  knew  nothing. 

After  two  hours,  the  sound  of  the  natural  and  com- 
plaisant steps  of  the  sentry  who  came  to  relieve  me 
brought  me  completely  back  to  myself.  I  detached  my- 
self from  the  spot  where  I  had  seemed  riveted  and  went 
to  sleep  in  the  "grotto." 

The  dug-out  was  very  roomy,  but  so  low  that  in  one 
place  one  had  to  crawl  on  hands  and  knees  to  slip  under 
its  rough  and  mighty  roof.  It  was  full  of  heavy  damp, 
and  hot  with  men.  Extended  in  my  place  on  straw-dust, 
my  neck  propped  by  my  knapsack,  I  closed  my  eyes  in 
comfort.  When  I  opened  them,  I  saw  a  group  of  soldiers 
seated  in  a  circle  and  eating  from  the  same  dish,  their 
heads  blotted  out  in  the  darkness  of  the  low  roof.  Their 
feet,  grouped  round  the  dish,  were  shapeless,  black,  and 
trickling,  like  stone  disinterred.  They  ate  in  common, 
without  table  things,  no  man  using  more  than  his  hands. 

The  man  next  me  was  equipping  himself  to  go  on 
sentry  duty.  He  was  in  no  hurry.  He  filled  his  pipe, 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  tinder-lighter  as  long  as  a  tape- 
worm, and  said  to  me,  "You're  not  going  on  again  till 
six  o'clock.  Ah,  you're  very  lucky!" 

Diligently  he  mingled  his  heavy  tobacco-clouds  with 
the  vapors  from  all  those  bodies  which  lay  around  us 
and  rattled  in  their  throats.  Kneeling  at  my  feet  to 
arrange  his  things,  he  gave  me  some  advice,  "No  need 
to  get  a  hump,  mind.  Nothing  ever  happens  here.  Get- 


;ii6  LIGHT 

ting  here's  by  far  the  worst.  On  that  job  you  get  it  hot, 
specially  when  you've  the  bad  luck  to  be  sleepy,  or  it's 
not  raining,  but  after  that  you're  a  workman,  and  you 
forget  about  it.  The  most  worst,  it's  the  open  crossing. 
But  nobody  I  know's  ever  stopped  one  there.  It  was 
other  blokes.  It's  been  like  this  for  two  months,  old 
man,  and  well  be  able  to  say  we've  been  through  the 
war  without  a  chilblain,  we  shall." 

At  dawn  I  resumed  my  lookout  at  the  loophole.  Quite 
near,  on  the  slope  of  the  little  wood,  the  bushes  and 
the  bare  branches  are  broidered  with  drops  of  water. 
In  front,  under  the  fatal  space  where  the  eternal  passage 
of  projectiles  is  as  undistinguishable  as  light  in  daytime, 
the  field  resembles  a  field,  the  road  resembles  a  road. 
Ultimately  one  makes  out  some  corpses,  but  what  a 
strangely  little  thing  is  a  corpse  in  a  field — a  tuft  of 
colorless  flowers  which  the  shortest  blades  of  grass  dis- 
guise! At  one  moment  there  was  a  ray  of  sunshine,  and 
it  resembled  the  past. 

Thus  went  the  days  by,  the  weeks  and  the  months; 
four  days  in  the  front  line,  the  harassing  journey  to  and 
from  it,  the  monotonous  sentry-go,  the  spy-hole  on  the 
plain,  the  mesmerism  of  the  empty  outlook  and  of  the 
deserts  of  waiting;  and  after  that,  four  days  of  rest- 
camp  full  of  marches  and  parades  and  great  cleansings 
of  implements  and  of  streets,  with  regulations  of  the 
strictest,  anticipating  all  the  different  occasions  for  pun- 
ishment, a  thousand  fatigues,  each  with  as  many  harsh 
knocks,  the  litany  of  optimist  phrases,  abstruse  and 
Utopian,  in  the  orders  of  the  day,  and  a  captain  who 
chiefly  concerned  himself  with  the  two  hundred  cartridges 
and  the  reserve  rations.  The  regiment  had  no  losses, 
or  almost  none;  a  few  wounds  during  reliefs,  and  some- 
times one  or  two  deaths  which  were  announced  like 
accidents.  We  only  underwent  great  weariness,  which 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  117 

goes  away  as  fast  as  it  comes.    The  soldiers  used  to  say 
that  on  the  whole  they  lived  in  peace. 

Marie  would  write  to  me,  "The  Piots  have  been  say- 
ing nice  things  about  you,"  or  "The  Trompsons'  son  is  a 
second  lieutenant,"  or  "If  you  knew  all  the  contrivances 
people  have  been  up  to,  to  hide  their  gold  since  it's  been 
asked  for  so  loudly!  If  you  knew  what  ugly  tales  there 
are!"  or  "Everything  is  just  the  same." 

$  £  $  $  j|r  £ 

Once,  when  we  were  coming  back  from  the  lines  and 
were  entering  our  usual  village,  we  did  not  stop  there; 
to  the  great  distress  of  the  men  who  were  worn  out  and 
yielding  to  the  force  of  the  knapsack.  We  continued 
along  the  road  through  the  evening  with  lowered  heads; 
and  one  hour  later  we  dropped  off  around  dark  build- 
ings— mournful  tokens  of  an  unknown  place — and  they 
put  us  away  among  shadows  which  had  new  shapes. 
From  that  time  onwards,  they  changed  the  village  at 
every  relief,  and  we  never  knew  what  it  was  until  we 
were  there.  I  was  lodged  in  barns,  into  which  one  wrig- 
gled by  a  ladder;  in  spongy  and  steamy  stables;  in 
cellars  where  undisturbed  draughts  stirred  up  the  moldy 
smells  that  hung  there;  in  frail  and  broken  hangars  which 
seemed  to  brew  bad  weather;  in  sick  and  wounded  huts; 
in  villages  remade  athwart  their  phantoms;  in  trenches 
and  in  caves — a  world  upside  down.  We  received  the 
wind  and  the  rain  in  our  sleep.  Sometimes  we  were  too 
brutally  rescued  from  the  pressure  of  the  cold  by  braziers, 
whose  poisonous  heat  split  one's  head.  And  we  forgot 
it  all  at  each  change  of  scene.  I  had  begun  to  note  the 
names  of  places  we  were  going  to,  but  I  lost  myself  in 
the  black  swarm  of  words  when  I  tried  to  recall  them. 
And  the  diversity  and  the  crowds  of  the  men  around  me 
were  such  that  I  managed  only  with  difficulty  to  attach 
fleeting  names  to  their  faces. 

My  companions  did  not  look  unfavorably  on  me,  but 


ii8  LIGHT 

I  was  no  more  than  another  to  them.  In  intervals  among 
the  occupations  of  the  rest-camp,  I  wandered  spiritless, 
blotted  out  by  the  common  soldiers'  miserable  uniform, 
familiarly  addressed  by  any  one  and  every  one,  and 
stopping  no  glance  from  a  woman,  by  reason  of  the  non- 
coms. 

I  should  never  be  an  officer,  like  the  Trompsons'  son. 
It  was  not  so  easy  in  my  sector  as  in  his.  For  that,  it 
would  be  necessary  for  things  to  happen  which  never 
would  happen.  But  I  should  have  liked  to  be  taken  into 
the  office.  Others  were  there  who  were  not  so  clearly 
indicated  as  I  for  that  work.  I  regarded  myself  as  a 
victim  of  injustice. 

****** 

One  morning  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  Ter- 
mite, Brisbille's  crony  and  accomplice,  and  he  arrived 
in  our  company  by  voluntary  enlistment!  He  was  as 
skimpy  and  warped  as  ever,  his  body  seeming  to  grimace 
through  his  uniform.  His  new  greatcoat  looked  worn 
out  and  his  boots  on  the  wrong  feet.  He  had  the  same 
ugly,  blinking  face  and  black-furred  cheeks  and  rasping 
voice.  I  welcomed  him  warmly,  for  by  his  enlistment 
he  was  redeeming  his  past  life.  He  took  advantage  of 
the  occasion  to  address  me  with  intimacy.  I  talked 
with  him  about  Viviers  and  even  let  him  share  the  news 
that  Marie  had  just  written  to  me — that  Monsieur  Jos- 
eph Boneas  was  taking  an  examination  in  order  to  be- 
come an  officer  in  the  police. 

But  the  poacher  had  not  completely  sloughed  his  old 
self.  He  looked  at  me  sideways  and  shook  in  the  air 
his  grimy  wrist  and  the  brass  identity  disk  that  hung 
from  it — a  disk  as  big  as  a  forest  ranger's,  perhaps  a 
trophy  of  bygone  days.  Hatred  of  the  rich  and  titled 
appeared  again  upon  his  hairy,  sly  face.  "Those  blasted 
nationalists,"  he  growled;  "they  spend  their  time  shov- 
ing the  idea  of  revenge  into  folks'  heads,  and  patching 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  119 

up  hatred  with  their  Leagues  of  Patriots  and  their  mili- 
tary tattoos  and  their  twaddle  and  their  newspapers,  and 
when  their  war  does  come  they  say  'Go  and  fight.' " 

"There  are  some  of  them  who  have  died  in  the  first 
line.  Those  have  done  more  than  their  duty." 

With  the  revolutionary's  unfairness,  the  little  man 
would  not  admit  it.  "No — they  have  only  done  their 
duty, — no  more." 

I  was  going  to  urge  Monsieur  Joseph's  weak  constitu- 
tion but  in  presence  of  that  puny  man  with  his  thin, 
furry  face,  who  might  have  stayed  at  home,  I  forebore. 
But  I  decided  to  avoid,  in  his  company,  those  subjects 
in  which  I  felt  he  was  full  of  sour  hostility  and  always 
ready  to  bite. 

Continually  we  saw  Marcassin's  eye  fixed  on  us,  though 
aloof.  His  new  bestriped  personality  had  completely 
covered  up  the  comical  picture  of  Petrolus.  He  even 
seemed  to  have  become  suddenly  more  educated,  and 
made  no  mistakes  when  he  spoke.  He  multiplied  him- 
self, was  attentiveness  itself  and  found  ways  to  expose 
himself  to  danger.  When  there  were  night  patrols  in 
the  great  naked  cemeteries  bounded  by  the  graves  of  the 
living,  he  was  always  in  them. 

But  he  scowled.  We  were  short  of  the  sacred  fire,  in 
his  opinion,  and  that  distressed  him.  To  grumbles  against 
the  fatigues  which  shatter,  the  waiting  which  exhausts, 
the  disillusion  which  destroys,  against  misery  and  the 
blows  of  cold  and  rain,  he  answered  violently,  "Can't 
you  see  it's  for  France?  Why,  hell  and  damnation!  As 
long  as  it's  for  France !" 

One  morning  when  we  were  returning  from  the 
trenches,  ghastly  in  a  ghastly  dawn,  during  the  last  min- 
utes of  a  stage,  a  panting  soldier  let  the  words  escape 
him,  "I'm  fed  up,  lam!" 

The    adjustant    sprang    towards    him,    "Aren't    you 


120  LIGHT 

ashamed  of  yourself,  hog?    Don't  you  think  that  France 
is  worth  your  dirty  skin  and  all  our  skins?" 

The  other,  strained  and  tortured  in  his  joints,  showed 
fight.  "France,  you  say?  Well,  that's  the  French,"  he 
growled. 

And  his  pal,  goaded  also  by  weariness,  raised  his  voice 
from  the  ranks.  "That's  right!  After  all,  it's  the  men 
that's  there." 

"Great  God!"  the  adjutant  roared  in  their  faces, 
"France  is  France  and  nothing  else,  and  you  don't  count, 
nor  you  either!" 

But  the  soldier,  all  the  while  hoisting  up  his  knapsack 
with  jerks  of  his  hips,  and  lowering  his  voice  before  the 
non-com's  aggressive  excitement,  clung  to  his  notion, 
and  murmured  between  his  puffings,  "Men — they're  hu- 
manity. That's  not  the  truth  perhaps?" 

Marcassin  began  to  hurry  through  the  drizzle  along 
the  side  of  the  marching  column,  shouting  and  trembling 
with  emotion,  "To  hell  with  your  humanity,  and  your 
truth,  too;  I  don't  give  a  damn  for  them.  /  know  your 
ideas — universal  justice  and  1 789  1 — to  hell  with  them, 
too.  There's  only  one  thing  that  matters  in  all  the 
earth,  and  that's  the  glory  of  France — to  give  the  Boches 
a  thrashing  and  get  Alsace-Lorraine  back,  and  money, 
that's  where  they're  taking  you,  and  that's  all  about  it. 
Once  that's  done,  all's  over.  It's  simple  enough,  even 
for  a  blockhead  like  you.  If  you  don't  understand  it, 
it's  because  you  can't  lift  your  pig's  head  to  see  an 
ideal,  or  because  you're  only  a  Socialist  and  a  confis- 
cator!" 

Very  reluctantly,  rumbling  all  over,  and  his  eye  threat- 
ening, he  went  away  from  the  now  silent  ranks.  A  mo- 
ment later,  as  he  passed  near  me,  I  noticed  that  his 
hands  still  trembled  and  I  was  infinitely  moved  to  see 
tears  in  his  eyes! 
1  Outbreak  of  the  French  Revolution. — Tr. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  121 

He  comes  and  goes  in  pugnacious  surveillance,  in 
furies  with  difficulty  restrained,  and  masked  by  a  con- 
traction of  the  face.  He  invokes  Deroulede,  and  says 
that  faith  comes  at  will,  like  the  rest.  He  lives  in  per- 
petual bewilderment  and  distress  that  everybody  does 
not  think  as  he  does.  He  exerts  real  influence,  for  there 
are,  in  the  multitudes,  whatever  they  may  say,  beautiful 
and  profound  instincts  always  near  the  surface. 

The  captain,  who  was  a  well-balanced  man,  although 
severe  and  prodigal  of  prison  when  he  found  the  least 
gap  in  our  loads,  considered  the  adjutant  animated  by 
an  excellent  spirit,  but  he  himself  was  not  so  fiery.  I 
was  getting  a  better  opinion  of  him;  he  could  judge  men. 
He  had  said  that  I  was  a  good  and  conscientious  soldier, 
that  many  like  me  were  wanted. 

Our  lieutenant,  who  was  very  young,  seemed  to  be  an 
amiable,  good-natured  fellow.  "He's  a  good  little  lad," 
said  the  grateful  men;  "there's  some  that  frighten  you 
when  you  speak  to  them,  and  they  solder  their  jaws  up. 
But  Mm,  he  speaks  to  you  even  if  you're  stupid.  When 
you  talk  to  him  about  you  and  your  family,  which  isn't, 
all  the  same,  very  interesting,  well,  he  listens  to  you,  old 
man." 

****** 

St.  Martin's  summer  greatly  warmed  us  as  we  tramped 
into  a  new  village.  I  remember  that  one  of  those  days 
I  took  Margat  with  me  and  went  with  him  into  a  re- 
cently shelled  house.  (Margat  was  storming  against  the 
local  grocer,  the  only  one  of  his  kind,  the  inevitable  and 
implacable  robber  of  his  customers.)  The  framework  of 
the  house  was  laid  bare,  it  was  full  of  light  and  plaster, 
and  it  trembled  like  a  steamboat.  We  climbed  to  the 
drawing-room  of  this  house  which  had  breathed  forth 
all  its  mystery  and  was  worse  than  empty.  The  room 
still  showed  remains  of  luxury  and  elegance — a  disem- 
boweled piano  with  clusters  of  protruding  strings;  a. 


122  LIGHT 

cupboard,  dislodged  and  rotting,  as  though  disinterred; 
a  white-powdered  floor,  sown  with  golden  stripes  and 
rumpled  books,  and  with  fragile  debris  which  cried  out 
when  we  trod  on  it.  Across  the  window,  which  was 
framed  in  broken  glass,  a  curtain  hung  by  one  corner 
and  fluttered  like  a  bat.  Over  the  sundered  fireplace, 
only  a  mirror  was  intact  and  unsullied,  upright  in  its 
frame. 

Then,  become  suddenly  and  profoundly  like  each 
other,  we  were  both  fascinated  by  the  virginity  of  that 
long  glass.  Its  perfect  integrity  lent  it  something  like 
a  body.  Each  of  us  picked  up  a  brick  and  we  broke  it 
with  all  our  might,  not  knowing  why.  We  ran  away 
down  the  shaking  spiral  stairs  whose  steps  were  hidden 
under  deep  rubbish.  At  the  bottom  we  looked  at  each 
other,  still  excited  and  already  ashamed  of  the  fit  of 
barbarism  which  had  so  suddenly  risen  in  us  and  urged 
our  arms. 

"What  about  it?  It's  a  natural  thing  to  do — we're 
becoming  men  again,  that's  all,"  said  Margat. 

Having  nothing  to  do  we  sat  down  there,  command- 
ing a  view  of  the  dale.  The  day  had  been  fine. 

Margat's  looks  strayed  here  and  there.  He  frowned, 
and  disparaged  the  village  because  it  was  not  like  his 
own.  What  a  comical  idea  to  have  built  it  like  that! 
He  did  not  like  the  church,  the  singular  shape  of  it,  the 
steeple  in  that  position  instead  of  where  it  should  have 
been. 

Orango  and  Remus  came  and  sat  down  by  us  in  the 
ripening  sun  of  evening. 

Far  away  we  saw  the  explosion  of  a  shell,  like  a  white 
shrub.  We  chuckled  at  the  harmless  shot  in  the  hazy 
distance  and  Remus  made  a  just  observation.  "As  long 
as  it's  not  dropped  here,  you  might  say  as  one  doesn't 
mind,  eh,  s'long  as  it's  dropped  somewhere  else,  eh?" 

At  that  moment  a  cloud  of  dirty  smoke  took  shape 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  123 

five  hundred  yards  away  at  the  foot  of  the  village,  and 
a  heavy  detonation  rolled  up  to  where  we  were. 

"They're  plugging  the  bottom  of  the  village,"  Orango 
laconically  certified. 

Margat,  still  ruminating  his  grievance,  cried,  "  'Fraid 
it's  not  on  the  grocers  it's  dropped,  that  crump,  seeing 
he  lives  right  at  the  other  end.  More's  the  pity.  He 
charges  any  old  price  he  likes  and  then  he  says  to  you 
as  well,  'If  you're  not  satisfied,  my  lad,  you  can  go  to 
hell.'  Ah,  more's  the  pity!" 

He  sighed,  and  resumed.  "Ah,  grocers,  they  beat  all, 
they  do.  You  can  starve  or  you  can  bankrupt,  that's 
their  gospel;  'You  don't  matter  to  me,  I've  got  to  make 
money.' " 

"What  do  you  want  to  be  pasting  the  grocers  for," 
Orango  asked,  "as  long  as  they've  always  been  like  that? 
They're  Messrs.  Thief  &  Sons." 

After  a  silence,  Remus  coughed,  to  encourage  his 
voice,  and  said,  "I'm  a  grocer." 

Then  Margat  said  to  him  artlessly,  "Well,  what  about 
it,  old  chap?  We  know  well  enough,  don't  we,  that  here 
on  earth  profit's  the  strongest  of  all." 

"Why,  yes,  to  be  sure,  old  man,"  Remus  replied. 
*  *  #  *  *  * 

One  day,  while  we  were  carrying  our  straw  to  our 
billets,  one  of  my  lowly  companions  came  up  and  ques- 
tioned me  as  he  walked.  "I'd  like  you  to  explain  to  me 
why  there  isn't  any  justice.  I've  been  to  the  captain  to 
ask  for  leave  that  I'd  a  right  to  and  I  shows  him  a  letter 
to  say  my  aunt's  shortly  deceased.  'That's  all  my  eye 
and  Betty  Martin/  he  says.  And  I  says  to  myself,  that's 
the  blinking  limit,  that  is.  Now,  then,  tell  me,  you. 
When  the  war  began,  why  didn't  there  begin  full  justice 
for  every  one,  seeing  they  could  have  done  it  and  seeing 
no  one  wouldn't  have  raised  no  objection  just  then.  Why 
is  it  all  just  the  contrary?  And  don't  believe  it's  only 


124  LIGHT 

what's  happened  to  me,  but  there's  big  business  men, 
they  say,  all  of  a  sudden  making  a  hundred  francs  a  day 
extra  because  of  the  murdering,  and  them  young  men 
an'  all,  and  a  lot  of  toffed-up  shirkers  at  the  rear  that's 
ten  times  stronger  than  this  pack  of  half-dead  Terri- 
torials that  they  haven't  sent  home  even  this  morning 
yet,  and  they  have  beanos  in  the  towns  with  their  Tot- 
ties  and  their  jewels  and  champagne,  like  what  Jusser- 
and  tells  us!" 

I  replied  that  complete  justice  was  impossible,  that 
we  had  to  look  at  the  great  mass  of  things  generally. 
And  then,  having  said  this,  I  became  embarrassed  in 
face  of  the  stubborn  inquisitiveness,  clumsily  strict,  of 
this  comrade  who  was  seeking  the  light  all  by  himself! 

Following  that  incident,  I  often  tried,  during  days  of 
monotony,  to  collect  my  ideas  on  war.  I  could  not.  I 
am  sure  of  certain  points,  points  of  which  I  have  always 
been  sure.  Farther  I  cannot  go.  I  rely  in  the  matter  on 
those  who  guide  us,  who  withhold  the  policy  of  the 
State.  But  sometimes  I  regret  that  I  no  longer  have  a 
spiritual  director  like  Joseph  Boneas. 

For  the  rest,  the  men  around  me — except  when  per- 
sonal interest  is  in  question  and  except  for  a  few  chat- 
terers who  suddenly  pour  out  theories  which  contain  bits 
taken  bodily  from  the  newspapers — the  men  around  me 
are  indifferent  to  every  problem  too  remote  and  too 
profound  concerning  the  succession  of  inevitable  mis- 
fortunes which  sweep  us  along.  Beyond  immediate 
things,  and  especially  personal  matters,  they  are  pru- 
dently conscious  of  their  ignorance  and  impotence. 

One  evening  I  was  coming  in  to  sleep  in  our  stable 
bedroom.  The  men  lying  along  its  length  and  breadth 
on  the  bundles  of  straw  had  been  talking  together  and 
were  agreed.  Some  one  had  just  wound  it  up — "From 
the  moment  you  start  marching,  that's  enough." 

But  Termite,  coiled  up  like  a  marmot  on  the  common 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  125 

litter,  was  on  the  watch.  He  raised  his  shock  of  hair, 
shook  himself  as  though  caught  in  a  snare,  waved  the 
brass  disk  on  his  wrist  like  a  bell  and  said,  "No,  that's 
not  enough.  You  must  think,  but  think  with  your  own 
idea,  not  other  people's." 

Some  amused  faces  were  raised  while  he  entered  into 
observations  that  they  foresaw  would  be  endless. 

"Pay  attention,  you  fellows,  he's  going  to  talk  about 
militarism,"  announced  a  wag,  called  Pinson,  whose 
lively  wit  I  had  already  noticed. 

"There's  the  question  of  militarism "  Termite 

went  on. 

We  laughed  to  see  the  hairy  mannikin  floundering  on 
the  dim  straw  in  the  middle  of  his  big  public-meeting 
words,  and  casting  fantastic  shadows  on  the  spider-web 
curtain  of  the  skylight. 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  us,"  asked  one  of  us,  "that  the 
Boches  aren't  militarists?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  in  course  they  are,"  Termite  con- 
sented to  admit. 

"Ha!  That  bungs  you  in  the  optic!"  Pinson  hastened 
to  record. 

"For  my  part,  old  sonny,"  said  a  Territorial  who  was 
a  good  soldier,  "I'm  not  seeking  as  far  as  you,  and  I'm 
not  as  spiteful.  I  know  that  they  set  about  us,  and  that 
we  only  wanted  to  be  quiet  and  friends  with  everybody. 
Why,  where  I  come  from,  for  instance  in  the  Creuse 
country,  I  know  that " 

"You  know?"  bawled  Termite,  angrily;  "you  know 
nothing  about  nothing!  You're  only  a  poor  little  tame 
animal,  like  all  the  millions  of  pals.  They  gather  us 
together,  but  they  separate  us.  They  say  what  they  like 
to  us,  or  they  don't  say  it,  and  you  believe  it.  They 
say  to  you,  'This  is  what  you've  got  to  believe  in!' 
They " 

I   found   myself  growing  privately  incensed   against 


;126  LIGHT 

Termite,  by  the  same  instinct  which  had  once  thrown 
me  upon  his  accomplice  Brisbille.  I  interrupted  him. 
"Who  are  they— your  'they'?" 

"Kings,"  said  Termite. 

At  that  moment  Marcassin's  silhouette  appeared  in 
the  gray  of  the  alley  which  ended  among  us.  "Look  out 
— there's  Marc'!  Shut  your  jaw,"  one  of  the  audience 
benevolently  advised. 

"I'm  not  af eared  not  to  say  what  I  think!"  declared 
Termite,  instantly  lowering  his  voice  and  worming  his 
way  through  the  straw  that  divided  the  next  stall  from 
ours. 

We  laughed  again.  But  Margat  was  serious.  "Al- 
ways," he  said,  "there'll  be  the  two  sorts  of  people  there's 
always  been — the  grousers  and  the  obeyers." 

Some  one  asked,  "What  for  did  you  chap  'list?" 

"  'Cos  there  was  nothing  to  eat  in  the  house,"  an- 
swered the  Territorial,  as  interpreter  of  the  general 
opinion. 

Having  thus  spoken,  the  old  soldier  yawned,  went  on 
all  fours,  arranged  the  straw  of  his  claim,  and  added, 
"We'll  not  worry,  but  just  let  him  be.  'Specially  seeing 
we  can't  do  otherwise." 

It  was  time  for  slumber.  The  shed  gaped  open  in 
front  and  at  the  sides,  but  the  air  was  not  cold. 

"We've  done  with  the  bad  days,"  said  Remus;  "shan't 
see  them  no  more." 

"At  last!"  said  Margat. 

We  stretched  ourselves  out,  elbow  to  elbow.  The  one 
in  the  dark  corner  blew  out  his  candle. 

"May  the  war  look  slippy  and  get  finished ! "  mumbled 
Orango. 

"If  only  they'll  let  me  transfer  to  the  cyclists,"  Mar- 
gat replied. 

We  said  no  more,  each  forming  that  same  great  wan- 
dering prayer  and  some  little  prayer  like  Margat's. 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  127 

Gently  we  wrapped  ourselves  up  on  the  straw,  one  with 
the  falling  night,  and  closed  our  eyes. 

5(5  sjs  s|s  Hf  if.  3f 

At  the  bottom  of  the  village,  in  the  long  pink  farm- 
house, there  was  a  charming  woman,  who  smiled  at  us 
with  twinkling  eyes.  As  the  days  emerged  from  the 
rains  and  fogs,  I  looked  at  her  with  all  my  soul,  for 
she  was  bathed  in  the  youth  of  the  year.  She  had  a 
little  nose  and  big  eyes  and  slight  fair  down  on  her  lips 
and  neck,  like  traces  of  gold.  Her  husband  was  mo- 
bilized and  we  paid  attentions  to  her.  She  smiled  at  the 
soldiers  as  she  went  by,  and  chattered  willingly  with  the 
non-coms;  and  the  passage  of  officers  brought  her  to  a 
standstill  of  vague  respect.  I  used  to  think  about  her, 
and  I  forgot,  through  her,  to  write  to  Marie. 

There  were  many  who  inquired,  speaking  of  the  farm- 
er's wife,  "Any  chance?"  But  there  were  many  who 
replied,  "Nothing  doing." 

One  morning  that  was  bright  above  all  others,  my 
companions  were  busy  holding  their  sides  around  a  tipsy 
comrade  whom  they  were  catechizing  and  ragging,  and 
sprinkling  now  and  then  with  little  doses  of  wine,  to 
entertain  him,  and  benefit  more  by  him.  These  inno- 
cent amusements,  like  those  which  Termite  provoked 
when  he  discoursed  on  militarism  and  the  universe,  did 
not  detain  me,  and  I  gained  the  street. 

I  went  down  the  paved  slope.  In  gardens  and  en- 
closures, the  buds  were  holding  out  a  multitude  of  lilli- 
putian  green  hands,  all  still  closed,  and  the  apple-trees 
had  white  roses.  Spring  was  hastening  everywhere.  I 
came  in  sight  of  the  pink  house.  She  was  alone  in  the 
road  and  she  took  all  the  sunshine  for  herself.  I  hesi- 
tated, I  went  by — my  steps  slackened  heavily — I  stopped, 
and  returned  towards  the  door.  Almost  in  spite  of  my- 
self I  went  in. 

At  first — light!     A  square  of  sunshine  glowed  on  the 


128  LIGHT 

red  tiled  floor  of  the  kitchen.    Casseroles  and  basins  were 
shining  brightly. 

She  was  there!  Standing  by  the  sink  she  was  making 
a  streak  of  silver  flow  into  a  gleaming  pail,  amid  the 
luminous  blush  of  the  polished  tiles  and  the  gold  of  the 
brass  pans.  The  greenish  light  from  the  window-glass 
was  moistening  her  skin.  She  saw  me  and  she  smiled. 

I  knew  that  she  always  smiled  at  us.  But  we  were 
alone!  I  felt  a  mad  longing  arise.  There  was  some- 
thing in  me  that  was  stronger  than  I,  that  ravished  the 
picture  of  her.  Every  second  she  became  more  beauti- 
ful. Her  plump  dress  proffered  her  figure  to  my  eyes, 
and  her  skirt  trembled  over  her  polished  sabots.  I 
looked  at  her  neck,  at  her  throat — that  extraordinary 
beginning.  A  strong  perfume  that  enveloped  her  shoul- 
ders was  like  the  truth  of  her  body.  Urged  forward,  I 
went  towards  her,  and  I  could  not  even  speak. 

She  had  lowered  her  head  a  little;  her  eyebrows  had 
come  nearer  together  under  the  close  cluster  of  her  hair; 
uneasiness  passed  into  her  eyes.  She  was  used  to  the 
boyish  mimicry  of  infatuated  men.  But  this  woman 
was  not  for  me!  She  dealt  me  the  blow  of  an  unfeeling 
laugh,  and  disappearing,  shut  the  door  in  my  face. 

I  opened  the  door.  I  followed  her  into  an  outhouse. 
Stammering  something,  I  found  touch  again  with  her 
presence,  I  held  out  my  hand.  She  slipped  away,  she 
was  escaping  me  forever — when  a  monstrous  Terror 
stopped  her! 

The  walls  and  roof  drew  near  in  a  hissing  crash  of 
thunder,  a  dreadful  hatch  opened  in  the  ceiling  and  all 
was  filled  with  black  fire.  And  while  I  was  hurled 
against  the  wall  by  a  volcanic  blast,  with  my  eyes 
scorched,  my  ears  rent,  and  my  brain  hammered,  while 
around  me  the  stones  were  pierced  and  crushed,  I  saw 
the  woman  uplifted  in  a  fantastic  shroud  of  black  and 
red,  to  fall  back  in  a  red  and  white  affray  of  clothes 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  129 

and  linen;  and  something  huge  burst  and  naked,  with 
two  legs,  sprang  at  my  face  and  forced  into  my  mouth 
the  taste  of  blood. 

I  know  that  I  cried  out,  hiccoughing.  Assaulted  by 
the  horrible  kiss  and  by  the  vile  clasp  that  bruised  the 
hand  I  had  offered  to  the  woman's  beauty — a  hand  still 
outheld — sunk  in  whirling  smoke  and  ashes  and  the 
dreadful  noise  now  majestically  ebbing,  I  found  my  way 
out  of  the  place,  between  walls  that  reeled  as  I  did. 
Bodily,  the  house  collapsed  behind  me.  In  my  flight 
over  the  shifting  ground  I  was  brushed  by  the  mass  of 
maddened  falling  stones  and  the  cry  of  the  ruins,  sink- 
ing in  vast  dust-clouds  as  in  a  tumult  of  beating  wings. 

A  veritable  squall  of  shells  was  falling  in  this  corner 
of  the  village.  A  little  way  off  some  soldiers  were 
ejaculating  in  front  of  a  little  house  which  had  just 
been  broken  in  two.  They  did  not  go  close  to  it  be- 
cause of  the  terrible  whistling  which  was  burying  itself 
here  and  there  all  around,  and  the  splinters  that  riddled 
it  at  every  blow.  Within  the  shelter  of  a  wall  we 
watched  it  appear  under  a  vault  of  smoke,  in  the  vivid 
flashes  of  that  unnatural  tempest. 

"Why,  you're  covered  with  blood!"  a  comrade  said 
to  me,  disquieted. 

Stupefied  and  still  thunderstruck  I  looked  at  that 
house's  bones  and  broken  spine,  that  human  house. 

It  had  been  split  from  top  to  bottom  and  all  the  front 
was  down.  In  a  single  second  one.  saw  all  the  seared 
cellules  of  its  rooms,  the  geometric  path  of  the  flues,  and 
a  down  quilt  like  viscera  on  the  skeleton  of  a  bed.  In 
the  upper  story  an  overhanging  floor  remained,  and 
there  we  saw  the  bodies  of  two  officers,  pierced  and 
spiked  to  their  places  round  the  table  where  they  were 
lunching  when  the  lightning  fell — a  nice  lunch,  too,  for 
we  saw  plates  and  glasses  and  a  bottle  of  champagne. 

"It's  Lieutenant  Norbert  and  Lieutenant  Ferriere." 


130  LIGHT 

One  of  these  specters  was  standing,  and  with  cloven 
jaws  so  enlarged  that  his  head  was  half  open,  he  was 
smiling.  One  arm  was  raised  aloft  in  the  festive  ges- 
ture which  he  had  begun  forever.  The  other,  his  fine 
fair  hair  untouched,  was  seated  with  his  elbows  on  a 
cloth  now  red  as  a  Turkey  carpet,  hideously  attentive, 
his  face  besmeared  with  shining  blood  and  full  of  foul 
marks.  They  seemed  like  two  statues  of  youth  and  the 
joy  of  life  framed  in  horror. 

"There's  three!"  some  one  shouted. 

This  one,  whom  we  had  not  seen  at  first,  hung  in  the 
air  with  dangling  arms  against  the  sheer  wall,  hooked 
on  to  a  beam  by  the  bottom  of  his  trousers.  A  pool  of 
blood  which  lengthened  down  the  flat  plaster  looked 
like  a  projected  shadow.  At  each  fresh  explosion  splin- 
ters were  scattered  round  him  and  shook  him,  as  though 
the  dead  man  was  still  marked  and  chosen  by  the  blind 
destruction. 

There  was  something  hatefully  painful  in  the  doll-like 
attitude  of  the  hanging  corpse. 

Then  Termite's  voice  was  raised.  "Poor  lad!"  he 
said. 

He  went  out  from  the  shelter  of  the  wall. 

"Are  you  mad?"  we  shouted;  "he's  dead,  anyway!" 

A  ladder  was  there.  Termite  seized  it  and  dragged 
it  towards  the  disemboweled  house,  which  was  lashed 
every  minute  by  broadsides  of  splinters. 

"Termite!"  cried  the  lieutenant,  "I  forbid  you  to  go 
there!  You're  doing  no  good." 

"I'm  the  owner  of  my  skin,  lieutenant,"  Termite  re- 
plied, without  stopping  or  looking  round. 

He  placed  the  ladder,  climbed  up  and  unhooked  the 
dead  man.  Around  them,  against  the  plaster  of  the 
wall,  there  broke  a  surge  of  deafening  shocks  and  white 
fire.  He  descended  with  the  body  very  skillfully,  laid  it 
on  the  ground,  and  remaining  doubled  up  he  ran  back 


AT  THE  WORLD'S  END  131 

to  us — to  fall  on  the  captain,  who  had  witnessed  the 
scene. 

"My  friend,"  the  captain  said,  "I've  been  told  that 
you  were  an  anarchist.  But  I've  seen  that  you're  brave, 
and  that's  already  more  than  half  of  a  Frenchman." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  Termite  took  it,  pretending 
to  be  little  impressed  by  the  honor. 

When  he  returned  to  us  he  said,  while  his  hand  rum- 
maged his  hedgehog's  beard,  "That  poor  lad — I  don't 
know  why — p'raps  it's  stupid — but  I  was  thinking  of 
his  mother." 

We  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  respect.  First,  be- 
cause he  had  gone  up  and  then  because  he  had  passed 
through  the  hail  of  iron  and  won.  There  was  no  one 
among  us  who  did  not  earnestly  wish  he  had  tried  and 
succeeded  in  what  Termite  had  just  done.  But  as- 
suredly we  did  not  a  bit  understand  this  strange  soldier. 

A  lull  had  come  in  the  bombardment.  "It's  over," 
we  concluded. 

As  we  returned  we  gathered  round  Termite  and  one 
spoke  for  the  rest. 

"You're  an  anarchist,  then?" 

"No,"  said  Termite,  "I'm  an  internationalist.  That's 
why  I  enlisted." 

"Ah!" 

He  tried  to  throw  light  on  his  words.  "You  under- 
stand, I'm  against  all  wars." 

"All  wars!  But  there's  times  when  war's  good. 
There's  defensive  war." 

"No,"  said  Termite  again,  "there's  only  offensive  war; 
because  if  there  wasn't  the  offensive  there  wouldn't  be 
the  defensive." 

"Ah!"  we  replied. 

We  went  on  chatting,  dispassionately  and  for  the 
sake  of  talking,  strolling  in  the  dubious  security  of  the 


132  LIGHT 

streets  which  were  sometimes  darkened  by  falls  of  wreck- 
age, under  a  sky  of  formidable  surprises. 

"All  the  same,  isn't  it  chaps  like  you  that  prevented 
France  from  being  prepared?" 

"There's  not  enough  chaps  like  me  to  prevent  any- 
thing; and  if  there'd  been  more,  there  wouldn't  have 
been  any  war." 

"It's  not  to  us,  it's  to  the  Boches  and  the  others  that 
you  must  say  that." 

"It's  to  all  the  world,"  said  Termite;  "that's  why  I'm 
an  internationalist." 

While  Termite  was  slipping  away  somewhere  else  his 
questioner  indicated  by  a  gesture  that  he  did  not  under- 
stand. "Never  mind,"  he  said  to  us,  "that  chap's  better 
than  us." 

Gradually  it  came  about  that  we  of  the  squad  used 
to  consult  Termite  on  any  sort  of  subject,  with  a  sim- 
plicity which  made  me  smile — and  sometimes  even  irri- 
tated me.  That  week,  for  instance,  some  one  asked  him, 
"All  this  firing — is  it  an  attack  they're  getting  ready?" 

But  he  knew  no  more  than  the  rest. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  SHADOWS 

WE  did  not  leave  for  the  trenches  on  the  day  we 
ought  to  have  done.  Evening  came,  then  night — noth- 
ing happened.  On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  some 
of  us  were  leaning,  full  of  idleness  and  uncertainty, 
against  the  front  of  a  house  that  had  been  holed  and 
bunged  up  again,  at  the  corner  of  a  street.  One  of  our 
comrades  said  to  me,  "Perhaps  we  shall  stay  here  till 
the  end  of  the  war." 

There  were  signs  of  dissent,  but  all  the  same,  the  little 
street  we  had  not  left  on  the  appointed  day  seemed  just 
then  to  resemble  the  streets  of  yore! 

Near  the  place  where  we  were  watching  the  hours  go 
by — and  fumbling  in  packets  of  that  coarse  tobacco 
that  has  skeletons  in  it — the  hospital  was  installed. 
Through  the  low  door  we  saw  a  broken  stream  of  poor 
soldiers  pass,  sunken  and  bedraggled,  with  the  sluggish 
eyes  of  beggars;  and  the  clean  and  wholesome  uniform 
of  the  corporal  who  led  them  stood  forth  among  them. 

They  were  always  pretty  much  the  same  men  who 
haunted  the  inspection  rooms.  Many  soldiers  make  it 
a  point  of  honor  never  to  report  sick,  and  in  their  ob- 
stinacy there  is  an  obscure  and  profound  heroism. 
Others  give  way  and  come  as  often  as  possible  to  the 
gloomy  places  of  the  Army  Medical  Corps,  to  run 
aground  opposite  the  major's  door.  Among  these  are 
found  real  human  remnants  in  whom  some  visible  or 
secret  malady  persists. 

133 


134  LIGHT 

The  examining-room  was  contrived  in  a  ground  floor 
room  whose  furniture  had  been  pushed  back  in  a  heap. 
Through  the  open  window  came  the  voice  of  the  major, 
and  by  furtively  craning  our  necks  we  could  just  see 
him  at  the  table,  with  his  tabs  and  his  eyeglass.  Be- 
fore him,  half-naked  indigents  stood,  cap  in  hand,  their 
coats  on  their  arms,  or  their  trousers  on  their  feet,  piti- 
fully revealing  the  man  through  the  soldier,  and  trying 
to  make  the  most  of  the  bleeding  cords  of  their  vari- 
cose veins,  or  the  arm  from  which  a  loose  and  cadaver- 
ous bandage  hung  and  revealed  the  hollow  of  an  ob- 
stinate wound,  laying  stress  on  their  hernia  or  the  ever- 
lasting bronchitis  beyond  their  ribs.  The  major  was  a 
good  sort  and,  it  seemed,  a  good  doctor.  But  this  time 
he  hardly  examined  the  parts  that  were  shown  to  him 
and  his  monotonous  verdict  took  wings  into  the  street. 
"Fit  to  march — good — consultation  without  penalty."  1 

"Consultations,"  which  merely  send  the  soldier  back 
into  the  ranks  continued  indefinitely.  No  one  was  ex- 
empted from  marching.  Once  we  heard  the  husky  and 
pitiful  voice  of  a  simpleton  who  was  dressing  again  in 
recrimination.  The  doctor  argued,  in  a  good-natured 
way,  and  then  said,  his  voice  suddenly  serious,  "Sorry, 
my  good  man,  but  I  cannot  exempt  you.  I  have  certain 
instructions.  Make  an  effort.  You  can  still  do  it." 

We  saw  them  come  out,  one  by  one,  these  creatures 
of  deformed  body  and  dwindling  movement,  leaning  on 
each  other,  as  though  attached,  and  mumbling,  "Nothing 
can  be  done,  nothing." 

Little  Melusson,  reserved  and  wretched,  with  his  long 
red  nose  between  his  burning  cheekbones,  was  standing 
among  us  in  the  idle  file  with  which  the  morning  seemed 
vaguely  in  fellowship.  He  had  not  been  to  the  inspec- 

1  As  a  precaution  against  "scrimshanking,"  a  penalty  at- 
taches to  "consultations"  which  are  adjudged  uncalled-for. 
— Tr. 


THE  SHADOWS  135 

tion,  but  he  said,  "I  can  carry  on  to-day  still;  but  to- 
morrow I  shall  knock  under.    To-morrow " 

We  paid  no  attention  to  Melusson's  words.  Some  one 
near  us  said,  "Those  instructions  the  major  spoke  of, 
they're  a  sign." 

#  H:  s)j  #  #  * 

On  parade  that  same  morning  the  chief,  with  his  nose 
on  a  paper,  read  out:  "By  order  of  the  Officer  Com- 
manding," and  then  he  stammered  out  some  names, 
names  of  some  soldiers  in  the  regiment  brigaded  with 
ours,  who  had  been  shot  for  disobedience.  There  was  a 
long  list  of  them.  At  the  beginning  of  the  reading  a 
slight  growl  was  heard  going  round.  Then,  as  the  sur- 
names came  out,  as  they  spread  out  in  a  crowd  around 
us,  there  was  silence.  This  direct  contact  with  the 
phantoms  of  the  executed  set  a  wind  of  terror  blowing 
and  bowed  all  heads. 

It  was  the  same  again  on  the  days  that  followed. 
After  parade  orders,  the  commandant,  whom  we  rarely 
saw,  mustered  the  four  companies  under  arms  on  some 
waste  ground.  He  spoke  to  us  of  the  military  situation, 
particularly  favorable  to  us  on  the  whole  front,  and  of 
the  final  victory  which  could  not  be  long  delayed.  He 
made  promises  to  us.  "Soon  you  will  be  at  home,"  and 
smiled  on  us  for  the  first  time.  He  said,  "Men,  I  do 
not  know  what  is  going  to  happen,  but  when  it  should 
be  necessary  I  rely  on  you.  As  always,  do  your  duty 
and  be  silent.  It  is  so  easy  to  be  silent  and  to  act ! " 

We  broke  off  and  made  ourselves  scarce.  Returned 
to  quarters  we  learned  there  was  to  be  an  inspection  of 
cartridges  and  reserve  rations  by  the  captain.  We  had 
hardly  time  to  eat.  Majorat  waxed  wroth,  and  confided 
his  indignation  to  Termite,  who  was  a  good  audience, 
"It's  all  the  fault  of  that  unlucky  captain — we're  just 
slaves!" 

He  shook,  his  fist  as  he  spoke  towards  the  Town  Hall. 


136  LIGHT 

But  Termite  shrugged  his  shoulders,  looked  at  him 
unkindly,  and  said,  "Like  a  rotten  egg,  that's  how  you 
talk.  That  captain,  and  all  the  red  tabs  and  brass  hats, 
it's  not  them  that  invented  the  rules.  They're  just  gilded 
machines — machines  like  you,  but  not  so  cheap.  If  you 
want  to  do  away  with  discipline,  do  away  with  war,  my 
fellow;  that's  a  sight  easier  than  to  make  it  amusing  for 
the  private." 

He  left  Majorat  crestfallen,  and  the  others  as  well. 
For  my  part  I  admired  the  peculiar  skill  with  which  the 
anti-militarist  could  give  answers  beside  the  mark  and 
yet  always  seem  to  be  in  the  right. 

During  those  days  they  multiplied  the  route-marches 
and  the  exercises  intended  to  let  the  officers  get  the  men 
again  in  hand.  These  maneuvers  tired  us  to  death,  and 
especially  the  sham  attacks  on  wooded  mounds,  carried 
out  in  the  evening  among  bogs  and  thorn-thickets.  When 
we  got  back,  most  of  the  men  fell  heavily  asleep  just 
as  they  had  fallen,  beside  their  knapsacks,  without  hav- 
ing the  heart  to  eat. 

Right  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  this  paralyzed 
slumber,  a  cry  echoed  through  the  walls,  "Alarm!  Stand 
to  arms!" 

We  were  so  weary  that  the  brutal  reveille  seemed  at 
first,  to  the  blinking  and  rusted  men,  like  the  shock  of  a 
nightmare.  Then,  while  the  cold  blew  in  through  the 
open  door  and  we  heard  the  sentries  running  through 
the  streets,  while  the  corporals  lighted  the  candles  and 
shook  us  with  their  voices,  we  sat  up  askew,  and 
crouched,  and  got  our  things  ready,  and  stood  up  and 
fell  in  shivering,  with  flabby  legs  and  minds  befogged, 
in  the  black-hued  street. 

After  the  roll-call  and  some  orders  and  counter-orders, 
we  heard  the  command  "Forward!"  and  we  left  the  rest- 
camp  as  exhausted  as  when  we  entered  it.  And  thus  we 
set  out,  no  one  knew  where. 


THE  SHADOWS  137 

At  first  it  was  the  same  exodus  as  always.  It  was  on 
the  same  road  that  we  disappeared:  into  the  same  great 
circles  of  blackness  that  we  sank. 

We  came  to  the  shattered  glass  works  and  then  to  the 
quarry,  which  daybreak  was  washing  and  fouling  and 
making  its  desolation  more  complete.  Fatigue  was 
gathering  darkly  within  us  and  abating  our  pace.  Faces 
appeared  stiff  and  wan,  and  as  though  they  were  seen 
through  gratings.  We  were  surrounded  by  cries  of 
"Forward!"  thrown  from  all  directions  between  the  twi- 
light of  the  sky  and  the  night  of  the  earth.  It  took  a 
greater  effort  every  time  to  tear  ourselves  away  from  the 
halts. 

We  were  not  the  only  regiment  in  movement  in  these 
latitudes.  The  twilight  depths  were  full.  Across  the 
spaces  that  surrounded  the  quarry  men  were  passing 
without  ceasing  and  without  limit,  their  feet  breaking 
and  furrowing  the  earth  like  plows.  And  one  guessed 
that  the  shadows  also  were  full  of  hosts  going  as  we 
were  to  the  four  corners  of  the  unknown.  Then  the 
clay  and  its  thousand  barren  ruts,  these  corpse-like  fields, 
fell  away.  Under  the  ashen  tints  of  early  day,  fog-banks 
of  men  descended  the  slopes.  From  the  top  I  saw  nearly 
the  whole  regiment  rolling  into  the  deeps.  As  once  of 
an  evening  in  the  days  gone  by,  I  had  a  perception  of 
the  multitude's  immensity  and  the  threat  of  its  might, 
that  might  which  surpasses  all  and  is  impelled  by  in- 
visible mandates. 

We  stopped  and  drew  breath  again;  and  on  the  gloomy 
edge  of  this  gulf  some  soldiers  even  amused  themselves 
by  inciting  Termite  to  speak  of  militarism  and  anti- 
militarism.  I  saw  faces  which  laughed,  through  their 
black  and  woeful  pattern  of  fatigue,  around  the  little 
man  who  gesticulated  in  impotence.  Then  we  had  to 
set  off  again. 

We  had  never  passed  that  way  but  in  the  dark,  and 


138  LIGHT 

we  did  not  recognize  the  scenes  now  that  we  saw  them. 
From  the  lane  which  we  descended,  holding  ourselves 
back,  to  gain  the  trench,  we  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
desert  through  which  we  had  so  often  passed — plains  and 
lagoons  unlimited. 

The  waterlogged  open  country,  with  its  dispirited  pools 
and  their  smoke-like  islets  of  trees,  seemed  nothing  but 
a  reflection  of  the  leaden,  cloud-besmirched  sky.  The 
walls  of  the  trenches,  pallid  as  ice-floes,  marked  with 
their  long,  sinuous  crawling  where  they  had  been  slowly 
torn  from  the  earth  by  the  shovels.  These  embossings 
and  canals  formed  a  complicated  and  incalculable  net- 
work, smudged  near  at  hand  by  bodies  and  wreckage; 
dreary  and  planetary  in  the  distance.  One  could  make 
out  the  formal  but  hazy  stakes  and  posts,  aligned  in  the 
distance  to  the  end  of  sight;  and  here  and  there  the 
swellings  and  round  ink-blots  of  the  dugouts.  In  some 
sections  of  trench  one  could  sometimes  even  descry  black 
lines,  like  a  dark  wall  between  other  walls,  and  these  lines 
stirred — they  were  the  workmen  of  destruction.  A  whole 
region  in  the  north,  on  higher  ground,  was  a  forest  flown 
away,  leaving  only  a  stranded  bristling  of  masts,  like  a 
quayside.  There  was  thunder  in  the  sky,  but  it  was 
drizzling,  too,  and  even  the  flashes  were  gray  above  that 
infinite  liquefaction  in  which  each  regiment  was  as  lost 
as  each  man. 

We  entered  the  plain  and  disappeared  into  the  trench. 
The  "open  crossing"  was  now  pierced  by  a  trench,  though 
it  was  little  more  than  begun.  Amid  the  smacks  of  the 
bullets  which  blurred  its  edges  we  had  to  crawl  flat  on 
our  bellies,  along  the  sticky  bottom  of  this  gully.  The 
close  banks  gripped  and  stopped  our  packs  so  that  we 
floundered  perforce  like  swimmers,  to  go  forward  in  the 
earth,  under  the  murder  in  the  air.  For  a  second  the 
anguish  and  the  effort  stopped  my  heart  and  in  a  night- 


THE  SHADOWS  139 

mare  I  saw  the  cadaverous  littleness  of  my  grave  closing 
over  me. 

At  the  end  of  this  torture  we  got  up  again,  in  spite 
of  the  knapsacks.  The  last  star-shells  were  sending  a 
bloody  aurora  borealis  into  the  morning.  Sudden  haloes 
drew  our  glances  and  crests  of  black  smoke  went  up 
like  cypresses.  On  both  sides,  in  front  and  behind, 
we  heard  the  fearful  suicide  of  shells. 

****** 

We  marched  in  the  earth's  interior  until  evening. 
From  time  to  time  one  hoisted  the  pack  up  or  pressed 
down  one's  cap  into  the  sweat  of  the  forehead;  had  it 
fallen  it  could  not  have  been  picked  up  again  in  the 
mechanism  of  the  march;  and  then  we  began  again  to 
fight  with  the  distance.  The  hand  contracted  on  the 
rifle-sling  was  tumefied  by  the  shoulder-straps  and  the 
bent  arm  was  broken. 

Like  a  regular  refrain  the  lamentation  of  Melusson 
came  to  me.  He  kept  saying  that  he  was  going  to  stop, 
but  he  did  not  stop,  ever,  and  he  even  butted  into  the 
back  of  the  man  in  front  of  him  when  the  whistle  went 
for  a  halt. 

The  mass  of  the  men  said  nothing.  And  the  great- 
ness of  this  silence,  this  despotic  and  oppressive  mo- 
tion, irritated  Adjutant  Marcassin,  who  would  have 
liked  to  see  some  animation.  He  rated  and  lashed  us 
with  a  vengeance.  He  hustled  the  file  in  the  narrow- 
ness of  the  trench  as  he  clove  to  the  corners  so  as  to 
survey  his  charge.  But  then  he  had  no  knapsack. 

Through  the  heavy  distant  noise  of  our  tramping, 
through  the  funereal  consolation  of  our  drowsiness,  we 
heard  the  adjutant's  ringing  voice,  violently  reprimand- 
ing this  or  the  other.  "Where  have  you  seen,  swine, 
that  there  can  be  patriotism  without  hatred?  Do  you 
think  one  can  love  his  own  country  if  he  doesn't  hate 
la  2  others?" 


140  LIGHT 

When  some  one  spoke  banteringly  of  militarism — for 
no  one,  except  Termite,  who  didn't  count,  took  the  word 
seriously — Marcassin  growled  despairingly,  "French 
militarism  and  Prussian  militarism,  they're  not  the  same 
thing,  for  one's  French  and  the  other's  Prussian!" 

But  we  felt  that  all  these  wrangles  only  shocked  and 
wearied  him.  He  was  instantly  and  gloomily  silent. 

We  were  halted  to  mount  guard  in  a  part  we  had 
never  seen  before,  and  for  that  reason  it  seemed  worse 
than  the  others  to  us  at  first.  We  had  to  scatter  and 
run  up  and  down  the  shelterless  trench  all  night,  to 
avoid  the  plunging  files  of  shells.  That  night  was  but 
one  great  crash  and  we  were  strewn  in  the  middle  of  it 
among  black  puddles,  upon  a  ghostly  background  of 
earth.  We  moved  on  again  in  the  morning,  bemused, 
and  the  color  of  night.  In  front  of  the  column  we 
still  heard  the  cry  "Forward!"  Then  we  redoubled  the 
violence  of  our  effort,  we  extorted  some  little  haste  from 
out  us;  and  the  soaked  and  frozen  company  went  on 
under  cathedrals  of  cloud  which  collapsed  in  flames, 
victims  of  a  fate  whose  name  they  had  no  time  to  seek, 
a  fate  which  only  let  its  force  be  felt,  like  God. 

During  the  day,  and  much  farther  on,  they  cried 
"Halt!"  and  the  smothered  sound  of  the  march  was  si- 
lent. From  the  trench  in  which  we  collapsed  under  our 
packs,  while  another  lot  went  away,  we  could  see 
as  far  as  a  railway  embankment.  The  far  end  of  the 
loophole-pipe  enframed  tumbledown  dwellings  and 
cabins,  ruined  gardens  where  the  grass  and  the  flowers 
were  interred,  enclosures  masked  by  palings,  fragments 
of  masonry  to  which  eloquent  remains  of  posters  even 
still  clung — a  corner  full  of  artificial  details,  of  human 
things,  of  illusions.  The  railway  bank  was  near,  and 
in  the  network  of  wire  stretched  between  it  and  us 
many  bodies  were  fast-caught  as  flies. 

The  elements  had  gradually  dissolved   those  bodies 


THE  SHADOWS  141 

and  time  had  worn  them  out.  With  their  dislocated 
gestures  and  point-like  heads  they  were  but  lightly 
hooked  to  the  wire.  For  whole  hours  our  eyes  were 
fixed  on  this  country  all  obstructed  by  a  machinery  of 
wires  and  full  of  men  who  were  not  on  the  ground.  One, 
swinging  in  the  wind,  stood  out  more  sharply  than  the 
others,  pierced  like  a  sieve  a  hundred  times  through  and 
through,  and  a  void  in  the  place  of  his  heart.  Another 
specter,  quite  near,  had  doubtless  long  since  disinte- 
grated, while  held  up  by  his  clothes.  At  the  time  when 
the  shadow  of  night  began  to  seize  us  in  its  greatness  a 
wind  arose,  a  wind  which  shook  the  desiccated  crea- 
ture, and  he  emptied  himself  of  a  mass  of  mold  and 
dust.  One  saw  the  sky's  whirlwind,  dark  and  disheveled, 
in  the  place  where  the  man  had  been;  the  soldier  was 
carried  away  by  the  wind  and  buried  in  the  sky. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  afternoon  the  piercing  whistle 
of  the  bullets  was  redoubled.  We  were  riddled  and  bat- 
tered by  the  noise.  The  wariness  with  which  we 
watched  the  landscape  that  was  watching  us  seemed  to 
exasperate  Marcassin.  He  pondered  an  idea;  then  came 
to  a  sudden  decision  and  cried  triumphantly,  "Look!" 

He  climbed  to  the  parapet,  stood  there  upright,  shook 
his  fist  at  space  with  the  blind  and  simple  gesture  of 
the  apostle  who  is  offering  his  example  and  his  heart, 
and  shouted,  "Death  to  the  Bodies!" 

Then  he  came  down,  quivering  with  the  faith  of  his 
self-gift. 

"Better  not  do  that  again,"  growled  the  soldiers  who 
were  lined  up  in  the  trench,  gorgonized  by  the  extraordi- 
nary sight  of  a  living  man  standing,  for  no  reason,  on 
a  front  line  parapet  in  broad  daylight,  stupefied  by 
the  rashness  they  admired  although  it  outstripped  them. 

"Why  not?    Look!" 

Marcassin  sprang  up  once  more.  Lean  and  erect, 
he  stood  like  a  poplar,  and  raising  both  arms  straight 


142  LIGHT 

into  the  air,  he  yelled,  "I  believe  only  in  the  glory  of 
France!" 

Nothing  else  was  left  for  him;  he  was  but  a  con- 
viction. Hardly  had  he  spoken  thus  in  the  teeth  of 
the  invisible  hurricane  when  he  opened  his  arms,  as- 
sumed the  shape  of  a  cross  against  the  sky,  spun  round, 
and  fell  noisily  into  the  middle  of  the  trench  and  of 
our  cries. 

He  had  rolled  onto  his  belly.  We  gathered  round 
him.  With  a  jerk  he  turned  on  to  his  back,  his  arms 
slackened,  and  his  gaze  drowned  in  his  eyes.  His  blood 
began  to  spread  around  him,  and  we  drew  our  great 
boots  away,  that  we  should  not  walk  on  that  blood. 

"He  died  like  an  idiot,"  said  Margat  in  a  choking 
voice;  "but  by  God,  it's  fine!" 

He  took  off  his  cap,  saluted  awkwardly  and  stood 
with  bowed  head. 

"Committing  suicide  for  an  idea,  it's  fine,"  mum- 
bled Vidaine. 

"It's  fine,  it's  fine!"  other  voices  said. 

And  these  little  words  fluttered  down  like  leaves  and 
petals  onto  the  body  of  the  great  dead  soldier. 

"Where's  his  cap,  that  he  thought  so  much  of?" 
groaned  his  orderly,  Aubeau,  looking  in  all  directions. 

"Up  there,  to  be  sure:  I'll  fetch  it,"  said  Termite. 

The  comical  man  went  for  the  relic.  He  mounted 
the  parapet  in  his  turn,  coolly,  but  bending  low.  We 
saw  him  ferreting  about,  frail  as  a  poor  monkey  on  the 
terrible  crest.  At  last  he  put  his  hand  on  the  cap  and 
jumped  into  the  trench.  A  smile  sparkled  in  his  eyes 
and  in  the  middle  of  his  beard,  and  his  brass  "cold 
meat  ticket"  jingled  on  his  shaggy  wrist. 

They  took  the  body  away.  The  men  carried  it  and  a 
third  followed  with  the  cap.  One  of  us  said,  "The 
war's  over  for  him!"  And  during  the  dead  man's  reces- 
sional we  were  mustered,  and  we  continued  to  draw 


THE  SHADOWS  143 

nearer  to  the  unknown.     But  everything  seemed  to  re- 
cede as  fast  as  we  advanced,  even  events. 

****** 

We  wandered  five  days,  six  days,  in  the  lines,  almost 
without  sleeping.  We  stood  for  hours,  for  half-nights 
and  half-days,  waiting  for  ways  to  be  clear  that  we 
could  not  see.  Unceasingly  they  made  us  go  back  on 
our  tracks  and  begin  over  again.  We  mounted  guard  in 
trenches,  we  fitted  ourselves  into  some  stripped  and  sin- 
ister corner  which  stood  out  against  a  charred  twilight 
or  against  fire.  We  were  condemned  to  see  the  same 
abysses  always. 

For  two  nights  we  bent  fiercely  to  the  mending  of 
an  old  third-line  trench  above  the  ruin  of  its  former 
mending.  We  repaired  the  long  skeleton,  soft  and  black, 
of  its  timbers.  From  that  dried-up  drain  we  besomed 
the  rubbish  of  equipment,  of  petrified  weapons,  of  rot- 
ten clothes  and  of  victuals,  of  a  sort  of  wreckage  of 
forest  and  house — filthy,  incomparably  filthy,  infinitely 
filthy.  We  worked  by  night  and  hid  by  day.  The  only 
light  for  us  was  the  heavy  dawn  of  evening  when  they 
dragged  us  from  sleep.  Eternal  night  covered  the  earth. 

After  the  labor,  as  soon  as  daybreak  began  to  replace 
night  with  melancholy,  we  buried  ourselves  methodically 
in  the  depth  of  the  caverns  there.  Only  a  deadened 
murmur  penetrated  to  them,  but  the  rock  moved  by  rea- 
son of  the  earthquakes.  When  some  one  lighted  his  pipe, 
by  that  gleam  we  looked  at  each  other.  We  were  fully 
equipped;  we  could  start  away  at  any  minute;  it  was 
forbidden  to  take  off  the  heavy  jingling  chain  of  car- 
tridges around  us. 

I  heard  some  one  say,  "In  my  country  there  are 
fields,  and  paths,  and  the  sea;  nowhere  else  in  the  world 
is  there  that." 

Among  these  shades  of  the  cave — an  abode  of  the 
first  men  as  it  seemed — I  saw  the  hand  start  forth  of 


1144  LIGHT 

him  who  existed  on  the  spectacle  of  the  fields  and  the 
sea,  who  was  trying  to  show  it  and  to  seize  it;  or  I  saw 
around  a  vague  halo  four  card-players  stubbornly  bent 
upon  finding  again  something  of  an  ancient  and  peace- 
ful attachment  in  the  faces  of  the  cards;  or  I  saw  Mar- 
gat  flourish  a  Socialist  paper  that  had  fallen  from  Ter- 
mite's pocket,  and  burst  into  laughter  at  the  censored 
blanks  it  contained.  And  Majorat  raged  against  life, 
caressed  his  reserve  bottle  with  his  lips  till  out  of  breath 
and  then,  appeased  and  his  mouth  dripping,  said  it  was 
the  only  way  to  alleviate  his  imprisonment.  Then  sleep 
slew  words  and  gestures  and  thoughts.  I  kept  repeat- 
ing some  phrase  to  myself,  trying  in  vain  to  understand 
it;  and  sleep  submerged  me,  ancestral  sleep  so  dreary 
and  so  deep  that  it  seems  there  had  only  and  ever  been 
one  long,  lone  sleep  here  on  earth,  above  which  our  few 
actions  float,  and  which  ever  returns  to  fill  the  flesh  of 
man  with  night. 

Forward!  Our  nights  are  torn  from  us  in  lots.  The 
bodies,  invaded  by  caressing  poison,  and  even  by  con- 
fidences and  apparitions,  shake  themselves  and  stand  up 
again.  We  extricate  ourselves  from  the  hole,  and  emerge 
from  the  density  of  buried  breath;  stumbling  we  climb 
into  icy  space,  odorless,  infinite  space.  The  oscillation 
of  the  march,  assailed  on  both  sides  by  the  trench, 
brings  brief  and  paltry  halts,  in  which  we  recline  against 
the  walls,  or  cast  ourselves  on  them.  We  embrace  the 
earth,  since  nothing  else  is  left  us  to  embrace. 

Then  Movement  seizes  us  again.  Metrified  by  regu- 
lar jolts,  by  the  shock  of  each  step,  by  our  prisoned 
breathing,  it  loses  its  hold  no  more,  but  becomes  in- 
carnate in  us.  It  sets  one  small  word  resounding  in 
our  heads,  between  our  teeth — "Forward!" — longer, 
more  infinite  than  the  uproar  of  the  shells.  It  sets  us 
making,  towards  the  east  or  towards  the  north,  bounds 
which  are  days  and  nights  in  length.  It  turns  us  into  a 


THE  SHADOWS  145 

chain  which  rolls  along  with  a  sound  of  steel — the  metal- 
lic hammering  of  rifle,  bayonet,  cartridges,  and  of  the  tin 
cup  which  shines  on  the  dark  masses  like  a  bolt.  Wheels, 
gearing,  machinery!  One  sees  life  and  the  reality  of 
things  striking  and  consuming  and  forging  each  other. 
We  knew  well  enough  that  we  were  going  towards 
some  tragedy  that  the  chiefs  knew  of;  but  the  tragedy 
was  above  all  in  the  going  there. 

****** 

We  changed  country.  We  left  the  trenches  and 
climbed  out  upon  the  earth — along  a  great  incline  which 
hid  the  enemy  horizon  from  us  and  protected  us  against 
him.  The  blackening  dampness  turned  the  cold  into  a 
thing,  and  laid  frozen  shudders  on  us.  A  pestilence 
surrounded  us,  wide  and  vague;  and  sometimes  lines  of 
pale  crosses  alongside  our  march  spelled  out  death  in 
a  more  precise  way. 

It  was  our  tenth  night;  it  was  at  the  end  of  all  our 
nights,  and  it  seemed  greater  than  they.  The  distances 
groaned,  roared  and  growled,  and  would  sometimes  ab- 
ruptly define  the  crest  of  the  incline  among  the  winding 
sheets  of  the  mists.  The  intermittent  flutters  of  light 
showed  me  the  soldier  who  marched  in  front  of  me.  My 
eyes,  resting  in  fixity  on  him,  discovered  his  sheepskin 
coat,  his  waist-belt,  straining  at  the  shoulder-straps, 
dragged  by  the  metal-packed  cartridge  pouches,  by  the 
bayonet,  by  the  trench-tool;  his  round  bags,  pushed 
backwards;  his  swathed  and  hooded  rifle;  his  knapsack, 
packed  lengthways  so  as  not  to  give  a  handle  to  the 
earth  which  goes  by  on  either  side;  the  blanket,  the  quilt, 
the  tentcloth,  folded  accordion-wise  on  the  top  of  each 
other,  and  the  whole  surmounted  by  the  mess-tin,  ring- 
ing like  a  mournful  bell,  higher  than  his  head.  What  a 
huge,  heavy  and  mighty  mass  the  armed  soldier  is,  near 
at  hand  and  when  one  is  looking  at  nothing  else! 

Once,  in  consequence  of  a  command  badly  given  or 


146  LIGHT 

badly  understood,  the  company  wavered,  flowed  back 
and  pawed  the  ground  in  disorder  on  the  declivity.  Fifty 
men,  who  were  all  alike  by  reason  of  their  sheepskins 
ran  here  and  there  and  one  by  one — a  vague  collection 
of  evasive  men,  small  and  frail,  not  knowing  what  to  do; 
while  non-coms  ran  round  them,  abused  and  gathered 
them.  Order  began  again,  and  against  the  whitish 
and  bluish  sheets  spread  by  the  star-shells  I  saw  the 
pendulums  of  the  step  once  more  fall  into  line  under 
the  long  body  of  shadows. 

During  the  night  there  was  a  distribution  of  brandy. 
By  the  light  of  lanterns  we  saw  the  cups  held  out,  shak- 
ing and  gleaming.  The  libation  drew  from  our  en- 
trails a  moment  of  delight  and  uplifting.  The  liquid's 
fierce  flow  awoke  deep  impulses,  restored  the  martial 
mien  to  us,  and  made  us  grasp  our  rifles  with  a  victorious 
desire  to  kill. 

But  the  night  was  longer  than  that  dream.  Soon, 
the  kind  of  goddess  superposed  on  our  shadows  left  our 
hands  and  our  heads,  and  that  thrill  of  glory  was  of  no 
use. 

Indeed,  its  memory  filled  our  hearts  with  a  sort  of 
bitterness.  "You  see,  there's  no  trenches  anywhere 
about  here,"  grumbled  the  men. 

"And  why  are  there  no  trenches?"  said  a  wrong- 
headed  man;  "why,  it's  because  they  don't  care  a  damn 
for  soldiers'  lives." 

"Fathead!"    the    corporal    interrupted;    "what's    the 

good  of  trenches  behind,  if  there's  one  in  front,  fathead!" 
****** 

"Haiti" 

We  saw  the  Divisional  Staff  go  by  in  the  beam  of 
a  searchlight.  In  that  valley  of  night  it  might  have  been 
a  procession  of  princes  rising  from  a  subterranean  pal- 
ace. On  cuffs  and  sleeves  and  collars  badges  wagged 


THE  SHADOWS  147 

and  shone,  golden  aureoles  encircled  the  heads  of  this 
group  of  apparitions. 

The  flashing  made  us  start  and  awoke  us  forcibly,  as 
it  did  the  night. 

The  men  had  been  pressed  back  upon  the  side  of 
the  sunken  hollow  to  clear  the  way;  and  they  watched, 
blended  with  the  solidity  of  the  dark.  Each  great  per- 
son in  his  turn  pierced  the  fan  of  moted  sunshine,  and 
each  was  lighted  up  for  some  paces.  Hidden  and 
abashed,  the  shadow-soldiers  began  to  speak  in  very 
low  voices  of  those  who  went  by  like  torches. 

They  who  passed  first,  guiding  the  Staff,  were  the  com- 
pany and  battalion  officers.  We  knew  them.  The  quiet 
comments  breathed  from  the  darkness  were  composed 
either  of  praises  or  curses;  these  were  good  and  clear- 
sighted officers;  those  were  triflers  or  skulkers. 

"That's  one  that's  killed  some  men!" 

"That's  one  I'd  be  killed"  for!" 

"The  infantry  officer  who  really  does  all  he  ought," 
Pelican  declared,  "well,  he  get's  killed." 

"Or  else  he's  lucky." 

"There's  black  and  there's  white  in  the  company  of- 
ficers. At  bottom  you  know,  I  say  they're  men.  It's 
just  a  chance  you've  got  whether  you  tumble  on  the 
good  or  the  bad  sort.  No  good  worrying.  It's  just 
luck." 

"More's  the  pity  for  us." 

The  soldier  who  said  that  smiled  vaguely,  lighted  by 
a  reflection  from  the  chiefs.  One  read  in  his  face  an 
acquiescence  which  recalled  to  me  certain  beautiful 
smiles  I  had  caught  sight  of  in  former  days  on  toilers' 
humble  faces.  Those  who  are  around  me  are  saying  to 
themselves,  "Thus  it  is  written,"  and  they  think  no 
farther  than  that,  massed  all  mistily  in  the  darkness, 
like  vague  hordes  of  negroes. 

Then  officers  went  by  of  whom  we  did  not  speak,  be- 


148  LIGHT 

cause  we  did  not  know  them.  These  unknown  tab-bear- 
ers made  a  greater  impression  than  the  others;  and  be- 
sides, their  importance  and  their  power  were  increasing. 
We  saw  rows  of  increasing  crowns  on  the  caps.  Then, 
the  shadow-men  were  silent.  The  eulogy  and  the  cen- 
sure addressed  to  those  whom  one  had  seen  at  work 
had  no  hold  on  these,  and  all  those  minor  things  faded 
away.  These  were  admired  in  the  lump. 

This  superstition  made  me  smile.  But  the  general  of 
the  division  himself  appeared  in  almost  sacred  isolation. 
The  tabs  and  thunderbolts x  and  stripes  of  his  satellites 
glittered  at  a  respectful  distance  only.  Then  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  was  face  to  face  with  Fate  itself — the  will 
of  this  man.  In  his  presence  a  sort  of  instinct  dazzled 
me. 

"Packs  up!     Forward!" 

We  took  back  upon  our  hips  and  neck  the  knapsack 
which  had  the  shape  and  the  weight  of  a  yoke,  which 
every  minute  that  falls  on  it  weighs  down  more  dourly. 
The  common  march  went  on  again.  It  filled  a  great 
space;  it  shook  the  rocky  slopes  with  its  weight.  In  vain 
I  bent  my  head — I  could  not  hear  the  sound  of  my  own 
steps,  so  blended  was  it  with  the  others.  And  I  re- 
peated obstinately  to  myself  that  one  had  to  admire 
the  intelligent  force  which  sets  all  this  deep  mass  in 
movement,  which  says  to  us  or  makes  us  say,  "Forward!" 
or  "It  has  to  be!"  or  "You  will  not  know!"  which  hurls 
the  world  we  are  into  a  whirlpool  so  great  that  we  do 
not  even  see  the  direction  of  our  fall,  into  profundities 
we  cannot  see  because  they  are  profound.  We  have 

need  of  masters  who  know  all  that  we  do  not  know. 
****** 

Our  weariness  so  increased  and  overflowed  that  it 
seemed  as  if  we  grew  bigger  at  every  step!  And  then 
one  no  longer  thought  of  fatigue.  We  had  forgotten  it, 

1  Distinctive  badge  for  Staff  officers  and  others. — Tr. 


THE  SHADOWS  149 

as  we  had  forgotten  the  number  of  the  days  and  even 
their  names.  Always  we  made  one  step  more,  always. 
Ah,  the  infantry  soldiers,  the  pitiful  Wandering  Jews 
who  are  always  marching!  They  march  mathematically, 
in  rows  of  four  numbers,  or  in  file  in  the  trenches, 
four-squared  by  their  iron  load,  but  separate,  separate. 
Bent  forward  they  go,  almost  prostrated,  trailing  their 
legs,  kicking  the  dead.  Slowly,  little  by  little,  they  are 
wounded  by  the  length  of  time,  by  the  incalculable  repe- 
tition of  movements,  by  the  greatness  of  things.  They 
are  borne  down  by  their  bones  and  muscles,  by  their  own 
human  weight.  At  halts  of  only  ten  minutes,  they  sink 
down.  "There's  no  time  to  sleep!"  "No  matter,"  they 
say,  and  they  go  to  sleep  as  happy  people  do. 

j|e  jjc  H«  *  *  3f 

Suddenly  we  learned  that  nothing  was  going  to  hap- 
pen! It  was  all  over  for  us,  and  we  were  going  to  re- 
turn to  the  rest-camp.  We  said  it  over  again  to  our- 
selves. And  one  evening  they  said,  "We're  returning," 
although  they  did  not  know,  as  they  went  on  straight 
before  them,  whether  they  were  going  forward  or  back- 
ward. 

In  the  plaster-kiln  which  we  are  marching  past  there 
is  a  bit  of  candle,  and  sunk  underneath  its  feeble  illumi- 
nation there  are  four  men.  Nearer,  one  sees  that  it  is 
a  soldier,  guarding  three  prisoners.  The  sight  of  these 
enemy  soldiers  in  greenish  and  red  rags  gives  us  an 
impression  of  power,  of  victory.  Some  voices  question 
them  in  passing.  They  are  dismayed  and  stupefied; 
the  fists  that  prop  up  their  yellow  cheekbones  protrude 
triangular  caricatures  of  features.  Sometimes,  at  the 
cut  of  a  frank  question,  they  show  signs  of  lifting  their 
heads,  and  awkwardly  try  to  give  vent  to  an  answer. 

"What's  he  say,  that  chap?"  they  asked  Sergeant 
Miiller. 


150  LIGHT 

"He  says  that  war's  none  of  their  fault;  it's  the  big 
people's." 

"The  swine!"  grunts  Margat. 

We  climb  the  hill  and  go  down  the  other  side  of  it. 
Meandering,  we  steer  towards  the  infernal  glimmers 
down  yonder.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  we  stop.  There 
ought  to  be  a  clear  view,  but  it  is  evening — because  of 
the  bad  weather  and  because  the  sky  is  full  of  black 
things  and  of  chemical  clouds  with  unnatural  colors. 
Storm  is  blended  with  war.  Above  the  fierce  and  furi- 
ous cry  of  the  shells  I  heard,  in  domination  over  all, 
the  peaceful  boom  of  thunder. 

They  plant  us  in  subterranean  files,  facing  a  wide 
plain  of  gentle  gradient  which  dips  from  the  horizon 
towards  us,  a  plain  with  a  rolling  jumble  of  thorn- 
brakes  and  trees,  which  the  gale  is  seizing  by  the  hair. 
Squalls  charged  with  rain  and  cold  are  passing  over 
and  immensifying  it;  and  there  are  rivers  and  cataclysms 
of  clamor  along  the  trajectories  of  the  shells.  Yonder, 
under  the  mass  of  the  rust-red  sky  and  its  sullen  flames, 
there  opens  a  yellow  rift  where  trees  stand  forth  like 
gallows.  The  soil  is  dismembered.  The  earth's  cover- 
ing has  been  blown  a  lot  in  slabs,  and  its  heart  is  seen 
reddish  and  lined  white — butchery  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
see. 

There  is  nothing  now  but  to  sit  down  and  recline  one's 
back  as  conveniently  as  possible.  We  stay  there  and 
breathe  and  live  a  little;  we  are  calm,  thanks  to  that 
faculty  we  have  of  never  seeing  either  the  past  or  the 
future. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHITHER  GOEST   THOU? 

BUT  soon  a  shiver  has  seized  all  of  us. 

"Listen!     It's  stopped!    Listen!" 

The  whistle  of  bullets  has  completely  ceased,  and 
the  artillery  also.  The  lull  is  fantastic.  The  longer  it 
lasts  the  more  it  pierces  us  with  the  uneasiness  of  beasts. 
We  lived  in  eternal  noise;  and  now  that  it  is  hiding,  it 
shakes  and  rouses  us,  and  would  drive  us  mad. 

"What's  that?" 

We  rub  our  eyelids  and  open  wide  our  eyes.  We  hoist 
our  heads  with  no  precaution  above  the  crumbled  par- 
apet. We  question  each  other — "D'you  see?" 

No  doubt  about  it;  the  shadows  are  moving  along 
the  ground  wherever  one  looks.  There  is  no  point  in 
the  distance  where  they  are  not  moving. 

Some  one  says  at  last: — 

"Why,  it's  the  Boches,  to  be  sure!" 

And  then  we  recognize  on  the  sloping  plain  the  im- 
mense geographical  form  of  the  army  that  is  coming 

upon  us! 

****** 

Behind  and  in  front  of  us  together,  a  terrible  crackle 
bursts  forth  and  makes  somber  captives  of  us  in  the 
depth  of  a  valley  of  flames,  and  flames  which  illuminate 
the  plain  of  men  marching  over  the  plain.  They  reveal 
them  afar,  in  incalculable  number,  with  the  first  ranks 
detaching  themselves,  wavering  a  little,  and  forming 
again,  the  chalky  soil  a  series  of  points  and  lines  like 
somethin  written! 


152  LIGHT 

Gloomy  stupefaction  makes  us  dumb  in  face  of  that 
living  immensity.  Then  we  understand  that  this  host 
whose  fountain-head  is  out  of  sight  is  being  frightfully 
cannonaded  by  our  75's;  the  shells  set  off  behind  us 
and  arrive  in  front  of  us.  In  the  middle  of  the  lillipu- 
tian  ranks  the  giant  smoke-clouds  leap  like  hellish  gods. 
We  see  the  flashes  of  the  shells  which  are  entering  that 
flesh  scattered  over  the  earth.  It  is  smashed  and  burned 
entirely  in  places,  and  that  nation  advances  like  a 
brazier. 

Without  a  stop  it  overflows  towards  us.  Continually 
the  horizon  produces  new  waves.  We  hear  a  vast  and 
gentle  murmur  rise.  With  their  tearing  lights  and  their 
dull  glimmers  they  resemble  in  the  distance  a  whole 
town  making  festival  in  the  evening. 

We  can  do  nothing  against  the  magnitude  of  that 
attack,  the  greatness  of  that  sum  total.  When  a  gun 
has  fired  short,  we  see  more  clearly  the  littleness  of 
each  shot.  Fire  and  steel  are  drowned  in  all  that  life; 
it  closes  up  and  re-forms  like  the  sea. 

"Rapid  fire!" 

We  fire  desperately.  But  we  have  not  many  car- 
tridges. Since  we  came  into  the  first  line  they  have 
ceased  to  inspect  our  load  of  ammunition;  and  many  men, 
especially  these  last  days,  have  got  rid  of  a  part  of 
the  burden  which  bruises  hips  and  belly  and  tears  away 
the  skin.  They  who  are  coming  do  not  fire;  and  above 
the  long  burning  thicket  of  our  line  one  can  see  them 
still  flowing  from  the  east.  They  are  closely  massed  in 
ranks.  One  would  say  they  clung  to  each  other  as 
though  welded.  They  are  not  using  their  rifles.  Their 
only  weapon  is  the  infinity  of  their  number.  They  are 
coming  to  bury  us  under  their  feet. 

Suddenly  a  shift  in  the  wind  brings  us  the  smell  of 
ether.  The  divisions  advancing  on  us  are  drunk  I  We 
declare  it,  we  tell  it  to  ourselves  frantically. 


WHITHER  GOEST  THOU?        153 

"They're  on  fire!  They're  on  fire!"  cries  the  trem- 
bling voice  of  the  man  beside  me,  whose  shoulders  are 
shaken  by  the  shots  he  is  hurling. 

They  draw  near.  They  are  lighted  from  below  along 
the  descent  by  the  flashing  footlights  of  our  fire;  they 
grow  bigger,  and  already  we  can  make  out  the  forms 
of  soldiers.  They  are  at  the  same  time  in  order  and  in 
disorder.  Their  outlines  are  rigid,  and  one  divines  faces 
of  stone.  Their  rifles  are  slung  and  they  have  nothing 
in  their  hands.  They  come  on  like  sleep-walkers,  only 
knowing  how  to  put  one  foot  before  the  other,  and  surely 
they  are  singing.  Yonder,  in  the  bulk  of  the  invasion, 
the  guns  continue  to  destroy  whole  walls  and  whole 
structures  of  life  at  will.  On  the  edges  of  it  we  can 
clearly  see  isolated  silhouettes  and  groups  as  they  fall, 
with  an  extended  line  of  figures  like  torchlights. 

Now  they  are  there,  fifty  paces  away,  breathing  their 
ether  into  our  faces.  We  do  not  know  what  to  do.  We 
have  no  more  cartridges.  We  fix  bayonets,  our  ears 
filled  with  that  endless,  undefined  murmur  which  comes 
from  their  mouths  and  the  hollow  rolling  of  the  flood 
that  marches. 

A  shout  spreads  behind  us: 

"Orders  to  fall  back!" 

We  bow  down  and  evacuate  the  trench  by  openings 
at  the  back.  There  are  not  a  lot  of  us,  we  who  thought 
we  were  so  many.  The  trench  is  soon  empty,  and  we 
climb  the  hill  that  we  descended  in  coming.  We  go  up 
towards  our  ys's,  which  are  in  lines  behind  the  ridge  and 
still  thundering.  We  climb  at  a  venture,  in  the  open, 
by  vague  paths  and  tracks  of  mud;  there  are  no  trenches. 
During  the  gray  ascent  it  is  a  little  clearer  than  a  while 
ago:  they  do  not  fire  on  us.  If  they  fired  on  us,  we 
should  be  killed.  We  climb  in  flagging  jumps,  in  jerks, 
pounded  by  the  panting  of  the  following  waves  that 
push  us  before  them,  closely  beset  by  their  clattering, 


154  LIGHT 

nor  turning  round  to  look  again.  We  hoist  ourselves 
up  the  trembling  flanks  of  the  volcano  that  clamors  up 
yonder.  Along  with  us  are  emptied  batteries  also  climb- 
ing, and  horses  and  clouds  of  steam  and  all  the  horror 
of  modern  war.  Each  man  pushes  this  retreat  on,  and 
is  pushed  by  it;  and  as  our  panting  becomes  one  long 
voice,  we  go  up  and  up,  baffled  by  our  own  weight  which 
tries  to  fall  back,  deformed  by  our  knapsacks,  bent  and 
silent  as  beasts. 

From  the  summit  we  see  the  trembling  inundation, 
murmuring  and  confused,  filling  the  trenches  we  have 
just  left,  and  seeming  already  to  overflow  them.  But 
our  eyes  and  ears  are  violently  monopolized  by  the  two 
batteries  between  which  we  are  passing;  they  are  firing 
into  the  infinity  of  the  attackers,  and  each  shot  plunges 
into  life.  Never  have  I  been  so  affected  by  the  har- 
rowing sight  of  artillery  fire.  The  tubes  bark  and 
scream  in  crashes  that  can  hardly  be  borne;  they  go  and 
come  on  their  brakes  in  starts  of  fantastic  distinctness 
and  violence. 

In  the  hollows  where  the  batteries  lie  hid,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  fan-shaped  phosphorescence,  we  see  the  silhou- 
ettes of  the  gunners  as  they  thrust  in  the  shells.  Every 
time  they  maneuver  the  breeches,  their  chests  and  arms 
are  scorched  by  a  tawny  reflection.  They  are  like  the 
implacable  workers  of  a  blast  furnace;  the  breeches  are 
reddened  by  the  heat  of  the  explosions,  the  steel  of  the 
guns  is  on  fire  in  the  evening. 

For  some  minutes  now  they  have  fired  more  slowly — 
as  if  they  were  becoming  exhausted.  A  few  far-apart 
shots — the  batteries  fire  no  more;  and  now  that  the 
salvos  are  extinguished,  we  see  the  fire  in  the  steel  go 
out. 

In  the  abysmal  silence  we  hear  a  gunner  groan: — 

"There's  no  more  shell." 

The  shadow  of  twilight  resumes  its  place  in  the  sky — 


WHITHER  GOEST  THOU?         155 

henceforward  empty.  It  grows  cold.  There  is  a  mys- 
terious and  terrible  mourning.  Around  me,  springing 
from  the  obscurity,  are  groans  and  gasps  for  breath, 
loaded  backs  which  disappear,  stupefied  eyes,  and  the 
gestures  of  men  who  wipe  the  sweat  from  their  fore- 
heads. The  order  to  retire  is  repeated,  in  a  tone  that 
grips  us — one  would  call  it  a  cry  of  distress.  There  is  a 
confused  and  dejected  trampling;  and  then  we  descend, 
we  go  away  the  way  we  came,  and  the  host  follows  it- 
self heavily  and  makes  more  steps  into  the  gulf. 

When  we  have  gone  again  down  the  slope  of  the  hill, 
we  find  ourselves  once  more  in  the  bottom  of  a  valley, 
for  another  height  begins.  Before  ascending  it,  we  stop 
to  take  breath,  but  ready  to  set  off  again  should  the 
flood-tide  appear  on  the  ridge  yonder.  We  find  our- 
selves in  the  middle  of  grassy  expanses,  without  trenches 
or  defense,  and  we  are  astonished  not  to  see  the  supports. 
We  are  in  the  midst  of  a  sort  of  absence. 

We  sit  down  here  and  there;  and  some  one  with  his 
forehead  bowed  almost  to  his  knees,  translating  the 
common  thought,  says: — 

"It's  none  of  our  fault." 

Our  lieutenant  goes  up  to  the  man,  puts  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  and  says,  gently: — 

"No,  my  lads,  it's  none  of  your  fault." 

Just  then  some  sections  join  us  who  say,  "We're 
the  rearguard."  And  some  add  that  the  two  batteries  of 
75's  up  yonder  are  already  captured.  A  whistle  rings 
out — "Come,  march!" 

We  continue  the  retreat.  There  are  two  battalions 
of  us  in  all — no  soldier  in  front  of  us;  no  French  sol- 
dier behind  us.  I  have  neighbors  who  are  unknown  to 
me,  motley  men,  routed  and  stupefied,  artillery  and  engi- 
neers; unknown  men  who  come  and  go  away,  who  seem 
to  be  born  and  seem  to  die. 


456  LIGHT 

At  one  time  we  get  a  glimpse  of  some  confusion  in 
the  orders  from  above.  A  Staff  officer,  issuing  from  no 
one  knew  where,  throws  himself  in  front  of  us,  bars  our 
way,  and  questions  us  in  a  tragic  voice: — 

"What  are  you  miserable  men  doing?  Are  you  run- 
ning away?  Forward  in  the  name  of  France!  I  call 
upon  you  to  return.  Forward!" 

The  soldiers,  who  would  never  have  thought  of  retiring 
without  orders,  are  stunned,  and  can  make  nothing 
of  it. 

"We're  going  back  because  they  told  us  to  go  back." 

But  they  obey.  They  turn  right  about  face.  Some 
of  them  have  already  begun  to  march  forward,  and  they 
call  to  their  comrades: — 

"Hey  there!    This  way,  it  seems!" 

But  the  order  to  retire  returns  definitely,  and  we  obey 
once  more,  fuming  against  those  who  do  not  know  what 
they  say;  and  the  ebb  carries  away  with  it  the  officer 
who  shouted  amiss. 

The  march  speeds  up,  it  becomes  precipitate  and  hag- 
gard. We  are  swept  along  by  an  impetuosity  that  we 
submit  to  without  knowing  whence  it  comes.  We  begin 
the  ascent  of  the  second  hill  which  appears  in  the  fallen 
night  a  mountain. 

When  fairly  on  it  we  hear  round  us,  on  all  sides  and 
quite  close,  a  terrible  pit-pat,  and  the  long  low  hiss  of 
mown  grass.  There  is  a  crackling  afar  in  the  sky,  and 
they  who  glance  back  for  a  second  in  the  awesome  storm 
see  the  cloudy  ridges  catch  fire  horizontally.  It  means 
that  the  enemy  have  mounted  machine  guns  on  the  sum- 
mit we  have  just  abandoned,  and  that  the  place  where 
we  are  is  being  hacked  by  the  knives  of  bullets.  On  all 
sides  soldiers  wheel  and  rattle  down  with  curses,  sighs 
and  cries.  We  grab  and  hang  on  to  each  other,  jostling 
as  if  we  were  fighting. 

The  rest  at  last  reach  the  top  of  the  rise;  and  just  at 


WHITHER  GOEST  THOU?         157 

that  moment  the  lieutenant  cries  in  a  clear  and  heart- 
rending voice: 

"Good-by,  my  lads!" 

We  see  him  fall,  and  he  is  carried  away  by  the  sur- 
vivors around  him. 

From  the  summit  we  go  a  few  steps  down  the  other 
side,  and  lie  on  the  ground  in  silence.  Some  one  asks, 
"The  lieutenant?" 

"He's  dead." 

"Ah,"  says  the  soldier,  "and  how  he  said  good-by  to 
us!" 

We  breathe  a  little  now.  We  do  not  think  any  more 
unless  it  be  that  we  are  at  last  saved,  at  last  lying  down. 

Some  engineers  fire  star-shells,  to  reconnoiter  the  state 
of  things  in  the  ground  we  have  evacuated.  Some  have 
the  curiosity  to  risk  a  glance  over  it.  On  the  top  of  the 
first  hill — where  our  guns  were — the  big  dazzling  plum- 
mets show  a  line  of  bustling  excitement.  One  hears  the 
noises  of  picks  and  of  mallet  blows. 

They  have  stopped  their  advance  and  are  consolidating 
there.  They  are  hollowing  their  trenches  and  planting 
their  network  of  wire — which  will  have  to  be  taken  again 
some  day.  We  watch,  outspread  on  our  bellies,  or  kneel- 
ing, or  sitting  lower  down,  with  our  empty  rifles  be- 
side us. 

Margat  reflects,  shakes  his  head  and  says: — 

"Wire  would  have  stopped  them  just  now.  But  we 
had  no  wire." 

"And  machine-guns,  too!  but  where  are  they,  the 
M.G.s?" 

We  have  a  distinct  feeling  that  there  has  been  an 
enormous  blunder  in  the  command.  Want  of  foresight 
— the  reinforcements  were  not  there;  they  had  not 
thought  of  supports.  There  were  not  enough  guns  to 
bar  their  way,  nor  enough  artillery  ammunition;  with 
our  own  eyes  we  had  seen  two  batteries  cease  fire  in  mid- 


158  LIGHT 

action — they  had  not  thought  of  shells.  In  a  wide  stretch 
of  country,  as  one  could  see,  there  were  no  defense  work, 
no  trenches;  they  had  not  thought  of  trenches. 

It  is  obvious  even  to  the  common  eyes  of  common  sol- 
diers. 

"What  could  we  do?"  says  one  of  us;  "it's  the  chiefs." 

We  say  it  and  we  should  repeat  it  if  we  were  not  up 

again  and  swept  away  in  the  hustle  of  a  fresh  departure, 

and  thrown  back  upon  more  immediate  and  important 

anxieties. 

****** 

We  do  not  know  where  we  are. 

We  have  marched  all  night.  More  weariness  bends 
our  spines  again,  more  obscurity  hums  in  our  heads.  By 
following  the  bed  of  a  valley,  we  have  found  trenches 
again,  and  then  men.  These  splayed  and  squelched 
alleys,  with  their  fat  and  sinking  sandbags,  their  props 
which  rot  like  limbs,  flow  into  wider  pockets  where  activ- 
ity prevails — battalion  H.Q.,  or  dressing-stations.  About 
midnight  we  saw,  through  the  golden  line  of  a  dugout's 
half-open  door,  some  officers  seated  at  a  white  table — a 
cloth  or  a  map.  Some  one  cries,  "They're  lucky! "  The 
company  officers  are  exposed  to  dangers  as  we  are,  but 
only  in  attacks  and  reliefs.  We  suffer  long.  They  have 
neither  the  vigil  at  the  loophole,  nor  the  knapsack,  nor 
the  fatigues.  What  always  lasts  is  greater. 

And  now  the  walls  of  flabby  flagstones  and  the  open- 
mouthed  caves  have  begun  again.  Morning  rises,  long 
and  narrow  as  our  lot.  We  reach  a  busy  trench-crossing. 
A  stench  catches  my  throat:  some  cess-pool  into  which 
these  streets  suspended  in  the  earth  empty  their  sewage? 
No,  we  see  rows  of  stretchers,  each  one  swollen.  There 
is  a  tent  there  of  gray  canvas,  which  flaps  like  a  flag, 
and  on  its  fluttering  wall  the  dawn  lights  up  a  bloody 
cross. 

****** 


WHITHER  GOEST  THOU?         159 

Sometimes,  when  we  are  high  enough  for  our  eyes  to 
anbury  themselves,  I  can  dimly  see  some  geometrical 
lines,  so  confused,  so  desolated  by  distance,  that  I  do 
not  know  if  it  is  our  country  or  the  other;  even  when 
one  sees  he  does  not  know.  Our  looks  are  worn  away  in 
looking.  We  do  not  see,  we  are  powerless  to  people  the 
world.  We  all  have  nothing  in  common  but  eyes  of 
evening  and  a  soul  of  night. 

And  always,  always,  in  these  trenches  whose  walls  run 
down  like  waves,  with  their  stale  stinks  of  chlorine  and 
sulphur,  chains  of  soldiers  go  forward  endlessly,  towing 
each  other.  They  go  as  quickly  as  they  can,  as  if  the 
walls  were  going  to  close  upon  them.  They  are  bowed 
as  if  they  were  always  climbing,  wholly  dark  under 
colossal  packs  which  they  carry  without  stopping,  from 
one  place  to  another  place,  as  they  might  rocks  in  hell. 
From  minute  to  minute  we  are  filling  the  places  of  the 
obliterated  hosts  who  have  passed  this  way  like  the  wind 
or  have  stayed  here  like  the  earth. 

We  halt  in  a  funnel.  We  lean  our  backs  against  the 
walls,  resting  the  packs  on  the  projections  which  bristle 
from  them.  But  we  examine  these  things  coming  out  of 
the  earth,  and  we  smell  that  they  are  knees,  elbows  and 
heads.  They  were  interred  there  one  day  and  the  fol- 
lowing days  are  disinterring  them.  At  the  spot  where  I 
am,  from  which  I  have  roughly  and  heavily  recoiled 
with  all  my  armory,  a  foot  comes  out  from  a  subter- 
ranean body  and  protrudes.  I  try  to  put  it  out  of  the 
way,  but  it  is  strongly  incrusted.  One  would  have  to 
break  the  corpse  of  steel,  to  make  it  disappear.  I  look 
at  the  morsel  of  mortality.  My  thoughts,  and  I  cannot 
help  them,  are  attracted  by  the  horizontal  body  that  the 
world  bruises;  they  go  into  the  ground  with  it  and  mold 
a  shape  for  it.  Its  face — what  is  the  look  which  rots 
crushed  in  the  dark  depth  of  the  earth  at  the  top  of 
these  remains?  Ah,  one  catches  sight  of  what  there  is 


160  LIGHT 

under  the  battlefields!  everywhere  in  the  spaciotis  wall 
there  are  limbs,  and  black  and  muddy  gestures.  It  is 
a  sepulchral  sculptor's  great  sketch-model,  a  bas-relief 
in  clay  that  stands  haughtily  before  our  eyes.  It  is  the 
portal  of  the  earth's  interior;  yes,  it  is  the  gate  of  hell. 
****** 

In  order  to  get  here,  I  slept  as  I  marched;  and  now  I 
have  an  illusion  that  I  am  hidden  in  this  little  cave, 
cooped  up  against  the  curve  of  the  roof.  I  am  no  more 
than  this  gentle  cry  of  the  flesh — Sleep!  As  I  begin  to 
doze  and  people  myself  with  dreams,  a  man  comes  in. 
He  is  unarmed,  and  he  ransacks  us  with  the  stabbing 
white  point  of  his  flash-lamp.  It  is  the  colonel's  batman. 
He  says  to  our  adjutant  as  soon  as  he  finds  him: — 

"Six  fatigue  men  wanted." 

The  adjutant's  bulk  rises  and  yawns: — 

"Butsire,  Vindame,  Margat,  Termite,  Paulin,  Remus!" 
he  orders  as  he  goes  to  sleep  again. 

We  emerge  from  the  cave;  and  more  slowly,  from  our 
drowsiness.  We  find  ourselves  standing  in  a  village 
street.  But  as  soon  as  we  touch  the  open  air,  dazzling 
roars  precede  and  follow  us,  mere  handful  of  men  as  we 
are,  abruptly  revealing  us  to  each  other.  We  hurl  our- 
selves like  a  pack  of  hounds  into  the  first  door  or  the 
first  gaping  hole,  and  there  are  some  who  cry  that: 
"We  are  marked.  We're  given  away!" 

After  the  porterage  fatigue  we  go  back.  I  settle  my- 
self in  my  corner,  heavier,  more  exhausted,  more  buried 
in  the  bottom  of  everything.  I  was  beginning  to  sleep, 
to  go  away  from  myself,  lulled  by  a  voice  which  sought 
in  vain  the  number  of  the  days  we  had  been  on  the  move, 
and  was  repeating  the  names  of  the  nights — Thursday, 
Friday,  Saturday — when  the  man  with  the  pointed  light 
returns,  demands  a  gang,  and  I  set  off  with  the  others. 
It  is  so  again  for  a  third  time.  As  soon  as  we  are  outside, 
the  night,  which  seems  to  lie  in  wait  for  us,  sends  us  a 


WHITHER  GOEST  THOU?         161 

squall,  with  its  thunderous  destruction  of  space;  it  scat- 
ters us;  then  we  are  drawn  together  and  joined  up.  We 
carry  thick  planks,  two  by  two;  and  then  piles  of  sacks 
which  blind  the  bearers  with  a  plastery  dust  and  make 
them  reel  like  masts. 

Then  the  last  time,  the  most  terrible,  it  was  wire. 
Each  of  us  takes  into  his  hands  a  great  hoop  of  coiled 
wire,  as  tall  as  ourselves,  and  weighing  over  sixty  pounds. 
When  one  carries  it,  the  supple  wheel  stretches  out  like 
an  animal;  it  is  set  dancing  by  the  least  movement,  it 
works  into  the  flesh  of  the  shoulder,  and  strikes  one's 
feet.  Mine  tries  to  cling  to  me  and  pull  me  up  and  throw 
me  to  the  ground.  With  this  malignantly  heavy  thing, 
animated  with  barbarous  and  powerful  movement,  I 
cross  the  ruins  of  a  railway  station,  all  stones  and  beams. 
We  clamber  up  an  embankment  which  slips  away  and 
avoids  us,  we  drag  and  push  the  rebellious  and  implaca- 
ble burden.  It  cannot  be  reached,  that  receding  height. 
But  we  reach  it,  all  the  same. 

Ah,  I  am  a  normal  man!  I  cling  to  life,  and  I  have 
the  consciousness  of  duty.  But  at  that  moment  I  called 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  for  the  bullet  which  would 
have  delivered  me  from  life. 

We  return,  with  empty  hands,  in  a  sort  of  sinister  com- 
fort. I  remember,  as  we  came  in,  a  neighbor  said  to 
me — or  to  some  one  else: 

"Sheets  of  corrugated  iron  are  worse." 

The  fatigues  have  to  be  stopped  at  dawn,  although 
the  engineers  protest  against  the  masses  of  stores  which 
uselessly  fill  the  depot. 

We  sleep  from  six  to  seven  in  the  morning.  In  the 
last  traces  of  night  we  emigrate  from  the  cave,  blinking 
like  owls. 

"Where's  the  juice?" 1  we  ask. 

1  Coffee. 


162  LIGHT 

There  is  none.  The  cooks  are  not  there,  nor  the  mess 
people.  And  they  reply: — 

"Forward!" 

In  the  dull  and  pallid  morning,  on  the  approaches  to 
a  village,  there  appear  gardens,  which  no  longer  have 
human  shape.  Instead  of  cultivation  there  are  puddles 
and  mud.  All  is  burned  or  drowned,  and  the  walls  scat- 
tered like  bones  everywhere;  and  we  see  the  mottled 
and  bedaubed  shadows  of  soldiers.  War  befouls  the 
country  as  it  does  faces  and  hearts. 

Our  company  gets  going,  gray  and  wan,  broken  down 
by  the  infamous  weariness.  We  halt  in  front  of  a  han- 
gar:— 

"Those  that  are  tired  can  leave  their  packs,"  the  new 
sergeant  advises;  "they'll  find  them  again  here." 

"If  we're  leaving  our  packs,  it  means  we're  going  to 
attack,"  says  an  ancient. 

He  says  it,  but  he  does  not  know. 

One  by  one,  on  the  dirty  soil  of  the  hangar,  the 
knapsacks  fall  like  bodies.  Some  men,  however,  are 
mistrustful,  and  prefer  to  keep  their  packs.  Under  all 
circumstances  there  are  always  exceptions. 

Forward!  The  same  shouts  put  us  again  in  move- 
ment. Forward!  Come,  get  up!  Come  on,  march!  Sub- 
due your  refractory  flesh;  lift  yourselves  from  your 
slumber  as  from  a  coffin,  begin  yourselves  again  with- 
out ceasing,  give  all  that  you  can  give — Forward!  For- 
ward! It  has  to  be.  It  is  a  higher  concern  than  yours, 
a  law  from  above.  We  do  not  know  what  it  is.  We  only 
know  the  step  we  make;  and  even  by  day  one  marches 
in  the  night.  And  then,  one  cannot  help  it.  The  vague 
thoughts  and  little  wishes  that  we  had  in  the  days  when 
we  were  concerned  with  ourselves  are  ended.  There 
is  no  way  now  of  escaping  from  the  wheels  of  fate,  no 
way  now  of  turning  aside  from  fatigue  and  cold,  dis- 
gust and  pain.  Forward!  The  world's  hurricane  drives 


WHITHER  GOEST  THOU?         163 

straight  before  them  these  terribly  blind  who  grope  with 
their  rifles. 

We  have  passed  through  a  wood,  and  then  plunged 
again  into  the  earth.  We  are  caught  in  an  enfilading 
fire.  It  is  terrible  to  pass  in  broad  daylight  in  these  com- 
munication trenches,  at  right  angles  to  the  lines,  where 
one  is  in  view  all  the  way.  Some  soldiers  are  hit  and 
fall.  There  are  light  eddies  and  brief  obstructions  in  the 
places  where  they  dive;  and  then  the  rest,  a  moment 
halted  by  the  barrier,  sometimes  still  living,  frown  in 
the  wide-open  direction  of  death,  and  say: — 
"Well,  if  it's  got  to  be,  come  on.  Get  on  with  it!" 
They  deliver  up  their  bodies  wholly — their  warm 
bodies,  that  the  bitter  cold  and  the  wind  and  the  sight- 
less death  touch  as  with  women's  hands.  In  these  con- 
tacts between  living  beings  and  force,  there  is  something 
carnal,  virginal,  divine. 

s|e  Jfc  *  *  *  * 

They  have  sent  me  into  a  listening  post.  To  get 
there  I  had  to  worm  myself,  bent  double,  along  a  low 
and  obstructed  sap.  In  the  first  steps  I  was  careful 
not  to  walk  on  the  obstructions,  and  then  I  had  to,  and 
I  dared.  My  foot  trembled  on  the  hard  or  supple  masses 
which  peopled  that  sap. 

On  the  edge  of  the  hole — there  had  been  a  road  above 
it  formerly,  or  perhaps  even  a  market-place — the  trunk 
of  a  tree  severed  near  the  ground  arose,  short  as  a  grave- 
stone. The  sight  stopped  me  for  a  moment,  and  my 
heart,  weakened  no  doubt  by  my  physical  destitution, 
kindled  with  pity  for  the  tree  become  a  tomb! 

Two  hours  later  I  rejoined  the  section  in  its  pit.  We 
abide  there,  while  the  cannonade  increases.  The  morn- 
ing goes  by,  then  the  afternoon.  Then  it  is  evening. 

They  make  us  go  into  a  wide  dugout.  It  appears  that 
an  attack  is  developing  somewhere.  From  time  to  time, 
through  a  breach  contrived  between  sandbags  so  de- 


164  LIGHT 

composed  and  oozing  that  they  seem  to  have  lived,  we 
go  out  to  a  little  winterly  and  mournful  crossing,  to  look 
about.  We  consult  the  sky  to  determine  the  tempest's 
whereabouts.  We  can  know  nothing. 

The  artillery  fire  dazzles  and  then  chokes  up  our 
sight.  The  heavens  are  taaking  a  tumult  of  blades. 

Monuments  of  steel  break  loose  and  crash  above  our 
heads.  Under  the  sky,  which  is  dark  as  with  threat  of 
deluge,  the  explosions  throw  livid  sunshine  in  all  direc- 
tions. From  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  visible  world 
the  fields  move  and  descend  and  dissolve,  and  the  im- 
mense expanse  stumbles  and  falls  like  the  sea.  Tower- 
ing explosions  in  the  east,  a  squall  in  the  south;  in  the 
zenith  a  file  of  bursting  shrapnel  like  suspended  vol- 
canoes. 

The  smoke  which  goes  by,  and  the  hours  as  well, 
darken  the  inferno.  Two  or  three  of  us  risk  our  faces 
at  the  earthen  cleft  and  look  out,  as  much  for  the  pur- 
pose of  propping  ourselves  against  the  earth  as  for  see- 
ing. But  we  see  nothing,  nothing  on  the  infinite  ex- 
panse which  is  full  of  rain  and  dusk,  nothing  but  the 
clouds  which  tear  themselves  and  blend  together  in  the 
sky,  and  the  clouds  which  come  out  of  the  earth. 

Then,  in  the  slanting  rain  and  the  limitless  gray, 
we  see  a  man,  one  only,  who  advances  with  his  bayonet 
forward,  like  a  specter. 

We  watch  this  shapeless  being,  this  thing,  leaving 
our  lines  and  going  away  yonder. 

We  only  see  one — perhaps  that  is  the  shadow  of  an- 
other, on  his  left. 

We  do  not  understand,  and  then  we  do.  It  is  the  end 
of  the  attacking  wave. 

What  can  his  thoughts  be — this  man  alone  in  the  rain 
as  if  under  a  curse,  who  goes  upright  away,  forward, 
when  space  is  changed  into  a  shrieking  machine?  By 
the  light  of  a  cascade  of  flashes  I  thought  I  saw  a  strange 


WHITHER  GOEST  THOU?         165 

monk-like  face.  Then  I  saw  more  clearly — the  face  of 
an  ordinary  man,  muffled  in  a  comforter. 

"It's  a  chap  of  the  i5oth,  not  the  i29th,"  stammers 
a  voice  by  my  side. 

We  do  not  know,  except  that  it  is  the  end  of  the  at- 
tacking wave. 

When  he  has  disappeared  among  the  eddies,  another 
follows  him  at  a  distance,  and  then  another.  They 
pass  by,  separate  and  solitary,  delegates  of  death,  sacri- 
ficers  and  sacrificed.  Their  great-coats  fly  wide;  and  we, 
we  press  close  to  each  other  in  our  corner  of  night;  we 
push  and  hoist  ourselves  with  our  rusted  muscles,  to  see 
that  void  and  those  great  scattered  soldiers. 

We  return  to  the  shelter,  which  is  plunged  in  darkness. 
The  motor-cyclist's  voice  obtrudes  itself  to  the  point  that 
we  think  we  can  see  his  black  armor.  He  is  describing 
the  "carryings  on"  at  Bordeaux  in  September,  when  the 
Government  was  there.  He  tells  of  the  festivities,  the 
orgies,  the  expenditure,  and  there  is  almost  a  tone  of 
pride  in  the  poor  creature's  voice  as  he  recalls  so  many 
pompous  pageants  all  at  once. 

But  the  uproar  outside  silences  us.  Our  funk-hole 
trembles  and  cracks.  It  is  the  barrage — the  barrage 
which  those  whom  we  saw  have  gone  to  fight,  hand  to 
hand.  A  thunderbolt  falls  just  at  the  opening,  it  casts 
a  bright  light  on  all  of  us,  and  reveals  the  last  emotion 
of  all,  the  belief  that  all  was  ended!  One  man  is  gri- 
macing like  a  malefactor  caught  in  the  act;  another  is 
opening  strange,  disappointed  eyes;  another  is  swinging 
his  doleful  head,  enslaved  by  the  love  of  sleep,  and  an- 
other, squatting  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  makes  a 
lurid  entanglement.  We  have  seen  each  other — upright, 
sitting  or  crucified — in  the  second  of  broad  daylight 
which  came  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  to  resurrect  our 
darkness. 


ii66  LIGHT 

In  a  moment,  when  the  guns  chance  to  take  breath,  a 
voice  at  the  door-hole  calls  us: 

"Forward!" 

"We  shall  be  staying  there,  this  time  over!"  growl 
the  men. 

They  say  this,  but  they  do  not  know  it.  We  go  out, 
into  a  chaos  of  crashing  and  flames. 

"You'd  better  fix  bayonets,"  says  the  sergeant;  "come, 
get  'em  on." 

We  stop  while  we  adjust  weapon  to  weapon  and  then 
run  to  overtake  the  rest. 

We  go  down;  we  go  up;  we  mark  time;  we  go  for- 
ward— like  the  others.  We  are  no  longer  in  the  trench. 

"Get  your  heads  down — kneel  1" 

We  stop  and  go  on  our  knees.  A  star-shell  pierces  us 
with  its  intolerable  gaze. 

By  its  light  we  see,  a  few  steps  in  front  of  us,  a  gap- 
ing trench.  We  were  going  to  fall  into  it.  It  is  mo- 
tionless and  empty — no,  it  is  occupied — yes,  it  is  empty. 
It  is  full  of  a  file  of  slain  watchers.  The  row  of  men 
was  no  doubt  starting  out  of  the  earth  when  the  shell 
burst  in  their  faces;  and  by  the  poised  white  rays  we 
see  that  the  blast  has  staved  them  in,  has  taken  away 
the  flesh;  and  above  the  level  of  the  monstrous  battle- 
field there  is  left  of  them  only  some  fearfully  distorted 
heads.  One  is  broken  and  blurred;  one  emerges  like  a 
peak,  a  good  half  of  it  fallen  into  nothing.  At  the  end 
of  the  row,  the  ravages  have  been  less,  and  only  the 
eyes  are  smitten.  The  hollow  orbits  in  those  marble 
heads  look  outwards  with  dried  darkness.  The  deep 
and  obscure  face-wounds  have  the  look  of  caverns  and 
funnels,  of  the  shadows  in  the  moon;  and  stars  of  mud 
are  clapped  on  the  faces  in  the  place  where  eyes  once 
shone. 

Our  strides  have  passed  that  trench.  We  go  more 
quickly  and  trouble  no  more  now  about  the  star-shells, 


WHITHER  GOEST  THOU?         167 

which,  among  us  who  know  nothing,  say,  "I  know"  and 
"I  will."  All  is  changed,  all  habits  and  laws.  We  march 
exposed,  upright,  through  the  open  fields.  Then  I  sud- 
denly understand  what  they  have  hidden  from  us  up  to 
the  last  moment — we  are  attacking! 

Yes,  the  counter-attack  has  begun  without  our  know- 
ing it.  I  apply  myself  to  following  the  others.  May 
I  not  be  killed  like  the  others;  may  I  be  saved  like  the 
others!  But  if  I  am  killed,  so  much  the  worse. 

I  bear  myself  forward.  My  eyes  are  open  but  I  look 
at  nothing;  confused  pictures  are  printed  on  my  staring 
eyes.  The  men  around  me  form  strange  surges;  shouts 
cross  each  other  or  descend.  Upon  the  fantastic  walls 
of  nights  the  shots  make  flicks  and  flashes.  Earth  and 
sky  are  crowded  with  apparitions;  and  the  golden  lace 
of  burning  stakes  is  unfolding. 

A  man  is  in  front  of  me,  a  man  whose  head  is  wrapped 
in  linen. 

He  is  coming  from  the  opposite  direction.  He  is  com- 
ing from  the  other  country!  He  was  seeking  me,  and 
I  was  seeking  him.  He  is  quite  near — suddenly  he  is 
upon  me. 

The  fear  that  he  is  killing  me  or  escaping  me — I  do 
not  know  which — makes  me  throw  out  a  desperate  effort. 
Opening  my  hands  and  letting  the  rifle  go,  I  seize  him. 
My  fingers  are  buried  in  his  shoulder,  in  his  neck,  and 
I  find  again,  with  overflowing  exultation,  the  eternal 
form  of  the  human  frame.  I  hold  him  by  the  neck  with 
all  my  strength,  and  with  more  than  all  my  strength,  and 
we  quiver  with  my  quivering. 

He  had  not  the  idea  of  dropping  his  rifle  so  quickly 
as  I.  He  yields  and  sinks.  I  cling  to  him  as  if  it  were 
salvation.  The  words  in  his  throat  make  a  lifeless  noise. 
He  brandishes  a  hand  which  has  only  three  fingers — I 
saw  it  clearly  outlined  against  the  clouds  like  a  fork. 

Just  as  he  totters  in  my  arms,  resisting  death,  a  thun- 


i68  LIGHT 

derous  blow  strikes  him  in  the  back.  His  arms  drop,  and 
his  head  also,  which  is  violently  doubled  back,  but  his 
body  is  hurled  against  me  like  a  projectile,  like  a  super- 
human blast. 

I  have  rolled  on  the  ground;  I  get  up,  and  while  I 
am  hastily  trying  to  find  myself  again  I  feel  a  light  blow 
in  the  waist.  What  is  it?  I  walk  forward,  and  still 
forward,  with  my  empty  hands.  I  see  the  others  pass, 
they  go  by  in  front  of  me.  I,  I  advance  no  more.  Sud- 
denly I  fall  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   RUINS 

I  FALL  on  my  knees,  and  then  full  length.  I  do  what 
so  many  others  have  done. 

I  am  alone  on  the  earth,  face  to  face  with  the  mud,  and 
I  can  no  longer  move.  The  frightful  searching  of  the 
shells  alights  around  me.  The  hoarse  hurricane  which 
does  not  know  me  is  yet  trying  to  find  the  place  where 
I  am! 

Then  the  battle  goes  away,  and  its  departure  is  heart- 
rending. In  spite  of  all  my  efforts,  the  noise  of  the  firing 
fades  and  I  am  alone;  the  wind  blows  and  I  am  naked. 

I  shall  remain  nailed  to  the  ground.  By  clinging  to 
the  earth  and  plunging  my  hands  into  the  depth  of  the 
swamp  as  far  as  the  stones,  I  get  my  neck  round  a  little 
to  see  the  enormous  burden  that  my  back  supports.  No 
— it  is  only  the  immensity  on  me. 

My  gaze  goes  crawling.  In  front  of  me  there  are  dark 
things  all  linked  together,  which  seem  to  seize  or  to 
embrace  one  another.  I  look  at  those  hills  which  shut 
out  my  horizon  and  imitate  gestures  and  men.  The 
multitude  downfallen  there  imprisons  me  in  its  ruins.  I 
am  walled  in  by  those  who  are  lying  down,  as  I  was 
walled  in  before  by  those  who  stood. 

I  am  not  in  pain.  I  am  extraordinarily  calm;  I  am 
drunk  with  tranquillity.  Are  they  dead,  all — those?  I 
do  not  know.  The  dead  are  specters  of  the  living,  but 
the  living  are  specters  of  the  dead.  Something  warm  is 
licking  my  hand.  The  black  mass  which  overhangs  me 

169 


iyo  LIGHT 

is  trembling.  It  is  a  foundered  horse,  whose  great  body 
is  emptying  itself,  whose  blood  is  flowing  like  poor 
touches  of  a  tongue  on  to  my  hand.  I  shut  my  eyes, 
bemused,  and  think  of  a  bygone  merry-making;  and  I 
remember  that  I  once  saw,  at  the  end  of  a  hunt,  against 
the  operatic  background  of  a  forest,  a  child-animal 
whose  life  gushed  out  amid  general  delight. 

A  voice  is  speaking  beside  me. 

No  doubt  the  moon  has  come  out — I  cannot  see  as 
high  as  the  cloud  escarpments,  as  high  as  the  sky's  open- 
ing. But  that  blenching  light  is  making  the  corpses 
shine  like  tombstones. 

I  try  to  find  the  low  voice.  There  are  two  bodies, 
one  above  the  other.  The  one  underneath  must  be 
gigantic — his  arms  are  thrown  backward  in  a  hurricane 
gesture;  his  stiff,  disheveled  hair  has  crowned  him  with 
a  broken  crown.  His  eyes  are  opaque  and  glaucous,  like 
two  expectorations,  and  his  stillness  is  greater  than  any- 
thing one  may  dream  of.  On  the  other  the  moon's 
beams  are  setting  points  and  lines  a-sparkle  and  silver- 
ing gold.  It  is  he  who  is  talking  to  me,  quietly  and 
without  end.  But  although  his  low  voice  is  that  of  a 
friend,  his  words  are  incoherent.  He  is  mad — I  am 
abandoned  by  him!  No  matter,  I  will  drag  myself  up 
to  him  to  begin  with.  I  look  at  him  again.  I  shake 
myself  and  blink  my  eyes,  so  as  to  look  better.  He 
wears  on  his  body  a  uniform  accursed!  Then  with  a 
start,  and  my  hand  claw- wise,  I  stretch  myself  towards 
the  glittering  prize  to  secure  it.  But  I  cannot  go  nearer 
him;  it  seems  that  I  no  longer  have  a  body.  He  has 
looked  at  me.  He  has  recognized  my  uniform,  if  it  is 
recognizable,  and  my  cap,  if  I  have  it  still.  Perhaps  he 
has  recognized  the  indelible  seal  of  my  race  that  I  carry 
printed  on  my  features.  Yes,  on  my  face  he  has  recog- 
nized that  stamp.  Something  like  hatred  has  blotted  out 
the  face  that  I  saw  dawning  so  close  to  me.  Our  two 


THE  RUINS  171 

hearts  make  a  desperate  effort  to  hurl  ourselves  on  each 
other.  But  we  can  no  more  strike  each  other  than  we 
can  separate  ourselves. 

But  has  he  seen  me?  I  cannot  say  now.  He  is  stirred 
by  fever  as  by  the  wind;  he  is  choked  with  blood.  He 
writhes,  and  that  shows  me  the  beaten-down  wings  of 
his  black  cloak. 

Close  by,  some  of  the  wounded  have  cried  out;  and 
farther  away  one  would  say  they  are  singing — beyond 
the  low  stakes  so  twisted  and  shriveled  that  they  look 
as  if  guillotined. 

He  does  not  know  what  he  is  saying.  He  does  not 
even  know  that  he  is  speaking,  that  his  thoughts  are 
coming  out.  The  night  is  torn  into  rags  by  sudden 
bursts;  it  fills  again  at  random  with  clusters  of  flashes; 
and  his  delirium  enters  into  my  head.  He  murmurs 
that  logic  is  a  thing  of  terrible  chains,  and  that  all  things 
cling  together.  He  utters  sentences  from  which  distinct 
words  spring,  like  the  scattered  hasty  gleams  they  in- 
clude in  hymns — the  Bible,  history,  majesty,  folly.  Then 
he  shouts: — 

"There  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  the  Empire's 
glory!" 

His  cry  shakes  some  of  the  motionless  reefs.  And  I, 
like  an  invincible  echo,  I  cry: — 

"There  is  only  the  glory  of  France!" 

I  do  not  know  if  I  did  really  cry  out,  and  if  our  words 
did  collide  in  the  night's  horror.  His  head  is  quite  bare. 
His  slender  neck  and  bird-like  profile  issue  from  a  fur 
collar.  There  are  things  like  owls  shining  on  his  breast. 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  silence  is  digging  itself  into  the 
brains  and  lungs  of  the  dark  prisoners  who  imprison  us, 
and  that  we  are  listening  to  it. 

He  rambles  more  loudly  now,  as  if  he  bore  a  stifling 
secret;  he  calls  up  multitudes,  and  still  more  multitudes. 
He  is  obsessed  by  multitudes — "Men,  men!"  he  says. 


172  LIGHT 

The  soil  is  caressed  by  some  sounds  of  sighs,  terribly 
soft,  by  confidences  which  are  interchanged  without  their 
wishing  it.  Now  and  again,  the  sky  collapses  into  light, 
and  that  flash  of  instantaneous  sunshine  changes  the 
shape  of  the  plain  every  time,  according  to  its  direc- 
tion. Then  does  the  night  take  all  back  again  athwart 
the  rolling  echoes. 

"Men!     Menl" 

"What  about  them,  then?"  says  a  sudden  jeering  voice 
which  falls  like  a  stone. 

"Men  must  not  awake,"  the  shining  shadow  goes  on, 
in  dull  and  hollow  tones. 

"D,on't  worry!"  says  the  ironical  voice,  and  at  that 
moment  it  terrifies  me. 

Several  bodies  arise  on  their  fists  into  the  darkness — 
I  see  them  by  their  heavy  groans — and  look  around 
them. 

The  shadow  talks  to  himself  and  repeats  his  insane 
words: — 

"Men  must  not  awake." 

The  voice  opposite  me,  capsizing  in  laughter  and  swol- 
len with  a  rattle,  says  again: — 

"Don't  worry  1" 

Yonder,  in  the  hemisphere  of  night,  comets  glide, 
blending  their  cries  of  engines  and  owls  with  their  flam- 
ing entrails.  Will  the  sky  ever  recover  the  huge  peace  of 
the  sun  and  the  stainless  blue? 

A  little  order,  a  little  lucidity  are  coming  back  into 
my  mind.  Then  I  begin  to  think  about  myself. 

Am  I  going  to  die,  yes  or  no?  Where  can  I  be 
wounded?  I  have  managed  to  look  at  my  hands,  one 
by  one;  they  are  not  dead,  and  I  saw  nothing  in  their 
dark  trickling.  It  is  extraordinary  to  be  made  motion- 
less like  this,  without  knowing  where  or  how.  I  can 
do  no  more  on  earth  than  lift  my  eyes  a  little  to  the 
edge  of  the  world  where  I  have  rolled. 


THE  RUINS  173 

Suddenly  I  am  pushed  by  a  movement  of  the  horse 
on  which  I  am  lying.  I  see  that  he  has  turned  his  great 
head  aside;  he  is  mournfully  eating  grass.  I  saw  this 
horse  but  lately  in  the  middle  of  the  regiment — I  know 
him  by  the  white  in  his  mane — rearing  and  whinnying 
like  the  true  battle-chargers;  and  now,  broken  some- 
where, he  is  silent  as  the  truly  unhappy  are.  Once  again, 
I  recall  the  red  deer's  little  one,  mutilated  on  its  carpet 
of  fresh  crimson,  and  the  emotion  which  I  had  not  on 
that  bygone  day  rises  into  my  throat.  Animals  are 
innocence  incarnate.  This  horse  is  like  an  enormous 
child,  and  if  one  wanted  to  point  out  life's  innocence 
face  to  face,  one  would  have  to  typify,  not  a  little  child, 
but  a  horse.  My  neck  gives  way,  I  utter  a  groan,  and 
my  face  gropes  upon  the  ground. 

The  animal's  start  has  altered  my  place  and  shot 
me  on  my  side,  nearer  still  to  the  man  who  was  talking. 
He  has  unbent,  and  is  lying  on  his  back.  Thus  he  offers 
his  face  like  a  mirror  to  the  moon's  pallor,  and  shows 
hideously  that  he  is  wounded  in  the  neck.  I  feel  that  he 
is  going  to  die.  His  words  are  hardly  more  now  than 
the  rustle  of  wings.  He  has  said  some  unintelligible 
things  about  a  Spanish  painter,  and  some  motionless 
portraits  in  the  palaces — the  Escurial,  Spain,  Europe. 
Suddenly  he  is  repelling  with  violence  some  beings  who 
are  in  his  past: — 

"Begone,  you  dreamers!"  he  says,  louder  than  the 
stormy  sky  where  the  flames  are  red  as  blood,  louder 
than  the  falling  flashes  and  the  harrowing  wind,  louder 
than  all  the  night  which  enshrouds  us  and  yet  continues 
to  stone  us. 

He  is  seized  with  a  frenzy  which  bares  his  soul  as 
naked  as  his  neck: — 

"The  truth  is  revolutionary,"  gasps  the  nocturnal 
voice;  "get  you  gone,  you  men  of  truth,  you  who  cast 
disorder  among  ignorance,  you  who  strew  words  and 


174  LIGHT 

sow  the  wind;  you  contrivers,  begone!  You  bring  in 
the  reign  of  men  I  But  the  multitude  hates  you  and 
mocks  you!" 

He  laughs,  as  if  he  heard  the  multitude's  laughter. 

And  around  us  another  burst  of  convulsive  laughter 
grows  hugely  bigger  in  the  plain's  black  heart: — 

"Wot's  'e  sayin'  now,  that  chap?" 

"Let  him  be.    You  can  see  'e  knows  more'n  'e  says." 

"Ah,  la,  la!" 

I  am  so  near  to  him  that  I  alone  gather  the  rest  of 
his  voice,  and  he  says  to  me  very  quietly: — 

"I  have  confidence  in  the  abyss  of  the  people." 

And  those  words  stabbed  me  to  the  heart  and  dilated 
my  eyes  with  horror,  for  it  seemed  to  me  suddenly^  in 
a  flash,  that  he  understood  what  he  was  saying!  A  pic- 
ture comes  to  life  before  my  eyes — that  prince,  whom 
I  saw  from  below,  once  upon  a  time,  in  the  nightmare 
of  life,  he  who  loved  the  blood  of  the  chase.  Not  far 
away  a  shell  turns  the  darkness  upside  down;  and  it 
seems  as  if  that  explosion  also  has  considered  and 
shrieked. 

Heavy  night  is  implanted  everywhere  around  us.  My 
hands  are  bathed  in  black  blood.  On  my  neck  and 
cheeks,  rain,  which  is  also  black,  bleeds. 

The  funeral  procession  of  silver-fringed  clouds  goes 
by  once  more,  and  again  a  ray  of  moonlight  besilvers  the 
swamp  that  has  sunk  us  soldiers;  it  lays  winding-sheets 
on  the  prone. 

All  at  once  a  swelling  lamentation  comes  to  life,  one 
knows  not  where,  and  glides  over  the  plain: — 

"Help!    Help!" 

"Now  then!  They're  not  coming  to  look  for  us! 
What  about  it?" 

And  I  see  a  stirring  and  movement,  very  gentle,  as 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Amid  the  glut  of  noises,  upon  that  still  tepid  and  un- 


THE  RUINS  175 

submissive  expanse  where  cold  death  sits  brooding,  that 
sharp  profile  has  fallen  back.  The  cloak  is  quivering. 
The  great  and  sumptuous  bird  of  prey  is  in  the  act  of 
taking  wing. 

The  horse  has  not  stopped  bleeding.  Its  blood  falls 
on  me  drop  by  drop  with  the  regularity  of  a  clock, — 
as  though  all  the  blood  that  is  filtering  through  the 
strata  of  the  field  and  all  the  punishment  of  the  wounded 
came  to  a  head  in  him  and  through  him.  Ah,  it  seems 
that  truth  goes  farther  in  all  directions  than  one  thought! 
We  bend  over  the  wrong  that  animals  suffer,  for  them 
we  wholly  understand. 

Men,  men!  Everywhere  the  plain  has  a  mangled  out- 
line. Below  that  horizon,  sometimes  blue-black  and 
sometimes  red-black,  the  plain  is  monumental! 


CHAPTER  XV 

AN  APPARITION 

I  HAVE  not  changed  my  place.  I  open  my  eyes.  Have 
I  been  sleeping?  I  do  not  know.  There  is  tranquil 
light  now.  It  is  evening  or  morning.  My  arms  alone 
can  tremble.  I  am  enrooted  like  a  distorted  bush.  My 
wound?  It  is  that  which  glues  me  to  the  ground. 

I  succeed  in  raising  my  face,  and  the  wet  waves  of 
space  assail  my  eyes.  Patiently  I  pick  out  of  the  earthy 
pallor  which  blends  all  things  some  foggy  shoulders, 
some  cloudy  angles  of  elbows,  some  hand-like  lacera- 
tions. I  discern  in  the  still  circle  which  encloses  me — 
faces  lying  on  the  ground  and  dirty  as  feet,  faces  held 
out  to  the  rain  like  vases,  and  holding  stagnant  tears. 

Quite  near,  one  face  is  looking  sadly  at  me,  as  it  lolls 
to  one  side.  It  is  coming  out  of  the  bottom  of  the  heap, 
as  a  wild  animal  might.  Its  hair  falls  back  like  nails. 
The  nose  is  a  triangular  hole  and  a  little  of  the  white- 
ness of  human  marble  dots  it.  There  are  no  lips  left, 
and  the  two  rows  of  teeth  show  up  like  lettering.  The 
cheeks  are  sprinkled  with  moldy  "traces  of  beard.  This 
body  is  only  mud  and  stones.  This  face,  in  front  of  my 
own,  is  only  a  consummate  mirror. 

Water-blackened  overcoats  cover  and  clothe  the  whole 
earth  around  me. 

I  gaze,  and  gaze 

I  am  frozen  by  a  mass  which  supports  me.  My  elbow 
sinks  into  it.  It  is  the  horse's  belly;  its  rigid  leg 
obliquely  bars  the  narrow  circle  from  which  my  eyes 

176 


AN  APPARITION  1771 

cannot  escape.  Ah,  it  is  dead!  It  seems  to  me  that 
my  breast  is  empty,  yet  still  there  is  an  echo  in  my  heart. 
What  I  am  looking  for  is  life. 

The  distant  sky  is  resonant,  and  each  dull  shot  comes 
and  pushes  my  shoulder.  Nearer,  some  shells  are  thun- 
dering heavily.  Though  I  cannot  see  them,  I  see  the 
tawny  reflection  that  their  flame  spreads  abroad,  and 
the  sudden  darkness  as  well  that  is  hurled  by  their 
clouds  of  excretion.  Other  shadows  go  and  come  on 
the  ground  about  me;  and  then  I  hear  in  the  air  the 
plunge  of  beating  wings,  and  cries  so  fierce  that  I  feel 

them  ransack  my  head. 

****** 

Death  is  not  yet  dead  everywhere.  Some  points  and 
surfaces  still  resist  and  budge  and  cry  out,  doubtless  be- 
cause it  is  dawn;  and  once  the  wind  swept  away  a  muf- 
fled bugle-call.  There  are  some  who  still  burn  with  the 
invisible  fire  of  fever,  in  spite  of  the  frozen  periods  they 
have  crossed.  But  the  cold  is  working  into  them.  The 
immobility  of  lifeless  things  is  passing  into  them,  and 
the  wind  empties  itself  as  it  goes  by. 

Voices  are  worn  away;  looks  are  soldered  to  their 
eyes.  Wounds  are  staunched;  they  have  finished.  Only 
the  earth  and  the  stones  bleed.  And  just  then  I  saw, 
under  the  trickling  morning,  some  half-open  but  still 
tepid  dead  that  steamed,  as  if  they  were  the  blackening 
rubbish-heap  of  a  village.  I  watch  that  hovering  dead 
breath  of  the  dead.  The  crows  are  eddying  round  the 
naked  flesh  with  their  flapping  banners  and  their  war- 
cries.  I  see  one  which  has  found  some  shining  rubies 
on  the  black  vein-stone  of  a  foot;  and  one  which  noisily 
draws  near  to  a  mouth,  as  if  called  by  it.  Sometimes  a 
dead  man  makes  a  movement,  so  that  he  will  fall  lower 
down.  But  they  will  have  no  more  burial  than  if  they 

were  the  last  men  of  all. 

****** 


178  LIGHT 

There  is  one  upright  presence  which  I  catch  a  glimpse 
of,  so  near,  so  near;  and  I  want  to  see  it.  In  making  the 
effort  with  my  elbow  on  the  horse's  ballooned  body  I 
succeed  in  altering  the  direction  of  my  head,  and  of  the 
corridor  of  my  gaze.  Then  all  at  once  I  discover  a  quite 
new  population  of  bronze  men  in  rotten  clothes;  and 
especially,  erect  on  bended  knees,  a  gray  overcoat,  lac- 
quered with  blood  and  pierced  by  a  great  hole,  round 
which  is  collected  a  bunch  of  heavy  crimson  flowers. 
Slowly  I  lift  the  burden  of  my  eyes  to  explore  that  hole. 
Amid  the  shattered  flesh,  with  its  changing  colors  and 
a  smell  so  strong  that  it  puts  a  loathsome  taste  in  my 
mouth,  at  the  bottom  of  the  cage  where  some  crossed 
bones  are  black  and  rusted  as  iron  bars,  I  can  see  some- 
thing, something  isolated,  dark  and  round.  I  see  that 
it  is  a  heart. 

Placed  there,  too — I  do  not  know  how,  for  I  cannot 
see  the  body's  full  height — the  arm,  and  the  hand.  The 

hand  has  only  three  fingers — a  fork Ah,  I  recognize 

that  heart!  It  is  his  whom  I  killed.  Prostrate  in  the 
mud  before  him,  because  of  my  defeat  and  my  resem- 
blance, I  cried  out  to  the  man's  profundity,  to  the  super- 
human man.  Then  my  eyes  fell ;  and  I  saw  worms  mov- 
ing on  the  edges  of  that  infinite  wound.  I  was  quite 
close  to  their  stirring.  They  are  whitish  worms,  and 
their  tails  are  pointed  like  stings;  they  curve  and  flatten 
out,  sometimes  in  the  shape  of  an  "i,"  and  sometimes 
of  a  "u."  The  perfection  of  immobility  is  left  behind. 
The  human  material  is  crumbled  into  the  earth  for  an- 
other end. 

I  hated  that  man,  when  he  had  his  shape  and  his 
warmth.  We  were  foreigners,  and  made  to  destroy  our- 
selves. Yet  it  seems  to  me,  in  face  of  that  bluish  heart, 
still  attached  to  its  red  cords,  that  I  understand  the 
value  of  life.  It  is  understood  by  force,  like  a  caress. 
I  think  I  can  see  how  many  seasons  and  memories  and 


AN  APPARITION  179 

beings  there  had  to  be,  yonder,  to  make  up  that  life, — • 
while  I  remain  before  him,  on  a  point  of  the  plain,  like 
a  night  watcher.  I  hear  the  voice  that  his  flesh  breathed 
while  yet  he  lived  a  little,  when  my  ferocious  hands  fum- 
bled in  him  for  the  skeleton  we  all  have.  He  fills  the 
whole  place.  He  is  too  many  things  at  once.  How  can 
there  be  worlds  in  the  world?  That  established  notion 
would  destroy  all. 

This  perfume  of  a  tuberose  is  the  breath  of  corrup- 
tion. On  the  ground,  I  see  crows  near  me,  like  hens. 

Myself!  I  think  of  myself,  of  all  that  I  am.  My- 
self, my  home,  my  hours;  the  past,  and  the  future, — it 
was  going  to  be  like  the  past!  And  at  that  moment  I 
feel,  weeping  within  me  and  dragging  itself  from  some 
little  bygone  trifle,  a  new  and  tragical  sorrow  in  dying, 
a  hunger  to  be  warm  once  more  in  the  rain  and  the  cold: 
to  enclose  myself  in  myself  in  spite  of  space,  to  hold 
myself  back,  to  live.  I  called  for  help,  and  then  lay 
panting,  watching  the  distance  in  desperate  expectation. 
"Stretcher-bearers!"  I  cry.  I  do  not  hear  myself;  but 
if  only  the  others  heard  me! 

Now  that  I  have  made  that  effort,  I  can  do  no  more, 
and  my  head  lies  there  at  the  entrance  to  that  world- 
great  wound. 

There  is  nothing  now. 

Yet  there  is  that  man.  He  was  laid  out  like  one  dead. 
But  suddenly,  through  his  shut  eyes,  he  smiled.  He, 
no  doubt,  will  come  back  here  on  earth,  and  something 
within  me  thanks  him  for  his  miracle. 

And  there  was  that  one,  too,  whom  I  saw  die.  He 
raised  his  hand,  which  was  drowning.  Hidden  in  the 
depths  of  the  others,  it  was  only  by  that  hand  that  he 
lived,  and  called,  and  saw.  On  one  finger  shone  a  wed- 
ding-ring, and  it  told  me  a  sort  of  story.  When  his  hand 
ceased  to  tremble,  and  became  a  dead  plant  with  that 
golden  flower,  I  felt  the  beginning  of  a  farewell  rise  in 


i8o  LIGHT 

me  like  a  sob.  But  there  are  too  many  of  them  for  one 
to  mourn  them  all.  How  many  of  them  are  there  on  all 
this  plain?  How  many,  how  many  of  them  are  there 
in  all  this  moment?  Our  heart  is  only  made  for  one 
heart  at  a  time.  It  wears  us  out  to  look  at  all.  One 
may  say,  ''There  are  the  others,"  but  it  is  only  a  saying. 
"You  shall  not  know;  you  shall  not  know." 

Barrenness  and  cold  have  descended  on  all  the  body  of 
the  earth.  Nothing  moves  any  more,  except  the  wind, 
that  is  charged  with  cold  water,  and  the  shells,  that 
are  surrounded  by  infinity,  and  the  crows,  and  the 
thought  that  rolls  immured  in  my  head. 

****** 

They  are  motionless  at  last,  they  who  forever  marched, 
they  to  whom  space  was  so  great!  I  see  their  poor 
hands,  their  poor  legs,  their  poor  backs,  resting  on  the 
earth.  They  are  tranquil  at  last.  The  shells  which  be- 
spattered them  are  ravaging  another  world.  They  are 
in  the  peace  eternal. 

All  is  accomplished,  all  has  terminated  there.  It  is 
there,  in  that  circle  narrow  as  a  well  that  the  descent  into 
the  raging  heart  of  hell  was  halted,  the  descent  into 
slow  tortures,  into  unrelenting  fatigue,  into  the  flashing 
tempest.  We  came  here  because  they  told  us  to  come 
here.  We  have  done  what  they  told  us  to  do.  I  think 
of  the  simplicity  of  our  reply  on  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

The  gunfire  continues.  Always,  always,  the  shells 
come,  and  all  those  bullets  that  are  miles  in  length. 
Hidden  behind  the  horizons,  living  men  unite  with  ma- 
chines and  fall  furiously  on  space.  They  do  not  see 
their  shots.  They  do  not  know  what  they  are  doing. 
"You  shall  not  know;  you  shall  not  know." 

But  since  the  cannonade  is  returning,  they  will  be 
fighting  here  again.  All  these  battles  spring  from  them- 
selves and  necessitate  each  other  to  infinity!  One  single 
battle  is  not  enough,  it  is  not  complete,  there  is  no  satis- 


AN  APPARITION  181 

faction.  Nothing  is  finished,  nothing  is  ever  finished. 
Ah,  it  is  only  men  who  die!  No  one  understands  the 
greatness  of  things,  and  I  know  well  that  I  do  not 
understand  all  the  horror  in  which  I  am. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Here  is  evening,  the  time  when  the  firing  is  lighted  up. 
The  horizons  of  the  dark  day,  of  the  dark  evening,  and 
of  the  illuminated  night  revolve  around  my  remains  as 
round  a  pivot. 

I  am  like  those  who  are  going  to  sleep,  like  the  chil- 
dren. I  am  growing  fainter  and  more  soothed;  I  close 
my  eyes;  I  dream  of  my  home. 

Yonder,  no  doubt,  they  are  joining  forces  to  make  the 
evenings  tolerable.  Marie  is  there,  and  some  other 
women,  getting  dinner  ready;  the  house  becomes  a 
savor  of  cooking.  I  hear  Marie  speaking;  standing  at 
first,  then  seated  at  the  table.  I  hear  the  sound  of  the 
table  things  which  she  moves  on  the  cloth  as  she  takes 
her  place.  Then,  because  some  one  is  putting  a  light 
to  the  lamp,  having  lifted  its  chimney,  Marie  gets  up  to 
go  and  close  the  shutters.  She  opens  the  window.  She 
leans  forward  and  outspreads  her  arms;  but  for  a  mo- 
ment she  stays  immersed  in  the  naked  night.  She 
shivers,  and  I,  too.  Dawning  in  the  darkness,  she  looks 
afar,  as  I  am  doing.  Our  eyes  have  met.  It  is  true, 
for  this  night  is  hers  as  much  as  mine,  the  same  night, 
and  distance  is  not  anything  palpable  or  real;  distance 
is  nothing.  It  is  true,  this  great  close  contact. 

Where  am  I?  Where  is  Marie?  What  is  she,  even? 
I  do  not  know,  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  know  where 
the  wound  in  my  flesh  is,  and  how  can  I  know  the  wound 
in  my  heart? 

****** 

The  clouds  are  crowning  themselves  with  sheaves  of 
stars.  It  is  an  aviary  of  fire,  a  hell  of  silver  and  gold. 
Planetary  cataclysms  send  immense  walls  of  light  falling 


182  LIGHT 

around  me.  Phantasmal  palaces  of  shrieking  lightning, 
with  arches  of  star-shells,  appear  and  vanish  amid  for- 
ests of  ghastly  gleams. 

While  the  bombardment  is  patching  the  sky  with  con- 
tinents of  flame,  it  is  drawing  still  nearer.  Volleys  of 
flashes  are  plunging  in  here  and  there  and  devouring 
the  other  lights.  The  supernatural  army  is  arriving!  All 
the  highways  of  space  are  crowded.  Nearer  still,  a  shell 
bursts  with  all  its  might  and  glows;  and  among  us  all 
whom  chance  defends  goes  frightfully  in  quest  of  flesh. 
Shells  are  following  each  other  into  that  cavity  there. 
Again  I  see,  among  the  things  of  earth,  a  resurrected 
man,  and  he  is  dragging  himself  towards  that  hole!  He 
is  wrapped  in  white,  and  the  under-side  of  his  body, 
which  rubs  the  ground,  is  black.  Hooking  the  ground 
with  his  stiffened  arms  he  crawls,  long  and  flat  as  a  boat. 
He  still  hears  the  cry  "Forward!"  He  is  finding  his  way 
to  the  hole;  he  does  not  know,  and  he  is  trailing  ex- 
actly towards  its  monstrous  ambush.  The  shell  will  suc- 
ceed! At  any  second  now  the  frenzied  fangs  of  space 
will  strike  his  side  and  go  in  as  into  a  fruit.  I  have 
not  the  strength  to  shout  to  him  to  fly  elsewhere  with 
all  his  slowness;  I  can  only  open  my  mouth  and  be- 
come a  sort  of  prayer  in  face  of  the  man's  divinity. 
And  yet,  he  is  the  survivor;  and  along  with  the  sleeper, 
to  whom  a  dream  was  whispering  just  now,  he  is  the 
only  one  left  to  me. 

A  hiss — the  final  blow  reaches  him;  and  in  a  flash 
I  see  the  piebald  maggot  crushing  under  the  weight  of 
the  sibilance  and  turning  wild  eyes  towards  me. 

No!  It  is  not  he!  A  blow  of  light — of  all  light- 
fills  my  eyes.  I  am  lifted  up,  I  am  brandished  by  an 
unknown  blade  in  the  middle  of  a  globe  of  extraordinary 
light.  The  shell— I!  And  I  am  falling,  I  fall  con- 
tinually, fantastically.  I  fall  out  of  this  world;  and  in 


AN  APPARITION  183 

that  fractured  flash  I  saw  myself  again — I  thought  of 
my  bowels  and  my  heart  hurled  to  the  winds — and  I 
heard  voices  saying  again  and  again — far,  far  away — 
"Simon  Paulin  died  at  the  age  of  thirty-six." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI 

I  AM  dead.  I  fall,  I  roll  like  a  broken  bird  into  be- 
wilderments of  light,  into  canyons  of  darkness.  Ver- 
tigo presses  on  my  entrails,  strangles  me,  plunges  into 
me.  I  drop  sheer  into  the  void,  and  my  gaze  falls  faster 
than  I. 

Through  the  wanton  breath  of  the  depths  that  assail 
me  I  see,  far  below,  the  seashore  dawning.  The  ghostly 
strand  that  I  glimpse  while  I  cling  to  my  own  body  is 
bare,  endless,  rain-drowned,  and  supernaturally  mourn- 
ful. Through  the  long,  heavy  and  concentric  mists  that 
the  clouds  make,  my  eyes  go  searching.  On  the  shore 
I  see  a  being  who  wanders  alone,  veiled  to  the  feet.  It 
is  a  woman.  Ah,  I  am  one  with  that  woman!  She  is 
weeping.  Her  tears  are  dropping  on  the  sand  where 
the  waves  are  breaking!  While  I  am  reeling  to  infinity, 
I  hold  out  my  two  heavy  arms  to  her.  She  fades  away 
as  I  look. 

For  a  long  time  there  is  nothing,  nothing  but  invisible 
time,  and  the  immense  futility  of  rain  on  the  sea. 
****** 

What  are  these  flashes  of  light?  There  are  gleams  of 
flame  in  my  eyes;  a  surfeit  of  light  is  cast  over  me.  I 
can  no  longer  cling  to  anything — fire  and  water! 

In  the  beginning,  there  is  battle  between  fire  and 
water — the  world  revolving  headlong  in  the  hooked 
claws  of  its  flames,  and  the  expanses  of  water  which 
it  drives  back  in  clouds.  At  last  the  water  obscures 

184 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         185 

the  whirling  spirals  of  the  furnace  and  takes  their  place. 
Under  the  roof  of  dense  darkness,  timbered  with  flashes, 
there  are  triumphant  downpours  which  last  a  hundred 
thousand  years.  Through  centuries  of  centuries,  fire 
and  water  face  each  other;  the  fire,  upright,  buoyant  and 
leaping;  the  water  flat,  creeping,  gliding,  widening  its 
lines  and  its  surface.  When  they  touch,  is  it  the  water 
which  hisses  and  roars,  or  is  it  the  fire?  And  one  sees 
the  reigning  calm  of  a  radiant  plain,  a  plain  of  incal- 
culable greatness.  The  round  meteor  congeals  into 
shapes,  and  continental  islands  are  sculptured  by  the 
water's  boundless  hand. 

I  am  no  longer  alone  and  abandoned  on  the  former 
battlefield  of  the  elements.  Near  this  rock,  something 
like  another  is  taking  shape;  it  stands  straight  as  a 
flame,  and  moves.  This  sketch-model  thinks.  It  re- 
flects the  wide  expanse,  the  past  and  the  future;  and  at 
night,  on  its  hill,  it  is  the  pedestal  of  the  stars.  The 
animal  kingdom  dawns  in  that  upright  thing,  the  poor 
upright  thing  with  a  face  and  a  cry,  which  hides  an 
internal  world  and  in  which  a  heart  obscurely  beats.  A 
lone  being,  a  heart!  But  the  heart,  in  the  embryo  of  the 
first  men,  beats  only  for  fear.  He  whose  face  has  ap- 
peared above  the  earth,  and  who  carries  his  soul  in 
chaos,  discerns  afar  shapes  like  his  own,  he  sees  the  other 
— the  terrifying  outline  which  spies  and  roams  and  turns 
again,  with  the  snare  of  his  head.  Man  pursues  man 
to  kill  him  and  woman  to  wound  her.  He  bites  that  he 
may  eat,  he  strikes  down  that  he  may  clasp, — furtively, 
in  gloomy  hollows  and  hiding-places  or  in  the  depths  of 
night's  bedchamber,  dark  love  is  writhing, — he  lives  sole- 
ly that  he  may  protect,  in  some  disputed  cave,  his  eyes, 
his  breast,  his  belly,  and  the  caressing  brands  of  his 
hearth. 

****** 

There  is  a  great  calm  in  my  environs. 


a86  LIGHT 

From  place  to  place,  men  have  gathered  together. 
There  are  companies  and  droves  of  men,  with  watchmen, 
in  the  vapors  of  dawn;  and  in  the  middle  one  makes  out 
the  children  and  the  women,  crowding  together  like 
fallow  deer.  To  eastward  I  see,  in  the  silence  of  a  great 
fresco,  the  diverging  beams  of  morning  gleaming,  through 
the  intervening  and  somber  statues  of  two  hunters,  whose 
long  hair  is  tangled  like  briars,  and  who  hold  each  other's 
hand,  upright  on  the  mountain. 

Men  have  gone  towards  each  other  because  of  that 
ray  of  light  which  each  of  them  contains;  and  light  re- 
sembles light.  It  reveals  that  the  isolated  man,  too  free 
in  the  open  expanses,  is  doomed  to  adversity  as  if  he 
were  a  captive,  in  spite  of  appearances;  and  that  men 
must  come  together  that  they  may  be  stronger,  that 
they  may  be  more  peaceful,  and  even  that  they  may  be 
able  to  live. 

For  men  are  made  to  live  their  life  in  its  depth,  and 
also  in  all  its  length.  Stronger  than  the  elements  and 
keener  than  all  terrors  are  the  hunger  to  last  long,  the 
passion  to  possess  one's  days  to  the  very  end  and  to 
make  the  best  of  them.  It  is  not  only  a  right;  it  is 
a  virtue. 

Contact  dissolves  fear  and  dwindles  danger.  The 
wild  beast  attacks  the  solitary  man,  but  shrinks  from 
the  unison  of  men  together.  Around  the  home-fire,  that 
lowly  fawning  deity,  it  means  the  multiplication  of  the 
warmth  and  even  of  the  poor  riches  of  its  halo.  Among 
the  ambushes  of  broad  daylight,  it  means  the  better  dis- 
tribution of  the  different  forms  of  labor;  among  the 
ambushes  of  night,  it  stands  for  that  of  tender  and 
identical  sleep.  All  lone,  lost  words  blend  in  an  anthem 
whose  murmur  rises  in  the  valley  from  the  busy  anima- 
tion of  morning  and  evening. 

The  law  which  regulates  the  common  good  is  called 
the  moral  law.  Nowhere  nor  ever  has  morality  any 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         187 

other  purpose  than  that;  and  if  only  one  man  lived 
on  earth,  morality  would  not  exist.  It  prunes  the 
cluster  of  the  individual's  appetites  according  to  the 
desires  of  the  others.  It  emanates  from  all  and  from 
each  at  the  same  time,  at  one  and  the  same  time  from 
justice  and  from  personal  interest.  It  is  inflexible  and 
natural,  as  much  so  as  the  law  which,  before  our  eyes, 
fits  the  lights  and  shadows  so  perfectly  together.  It 
is  so  simple  that  it  speaks  to  each  one  and  tells  him  what 
it  is.  The  moral  law  has  not  proceeded  from  any  ideal; 
it  is  the  ideal  which  has  wholly  proceeded  from  the 
moral  law. 

The  primeval  cataclysm  has  begun  again  upon  the 
earth.  My  vision — beautiful  as  a  fair  dream  which 
shows  men's  composed  reliance  on  each  other  in  the 
sunrise — collapses  in  mad  nightmare. 

But  this  flashing  devastation  is  not  incoherent,  as  at 
the  time  of  the  conflict  of  the  first  elements  and  the 
groping  of  dead  things.  For  its  crevasses  and  flowing 
fires  show  a  symmetry  which  is  not  Nature's;  it  reveals 
discipline  let  loose,  and  the  frenzy  of  wisdom.  It  is 
made  up  of  thought,  of  will,  of  suffering.  Multitudes 
of  scattered  men,  full  of  an  infinity  of  blood,  confront 
each  other  like  floods.  A  vision  comes  and  pounces  on 
me,  shaking  the  soil  on  which  I  am  doubtless  laid — the 
marching  flood.  It  approaches  the  ditch  from  all  sides 
and  is  poured  into  it.  The  fire  hisses  and  roars  in  that 
army  as  in  water;  it  is  extinguished  in  human  foun- 
tains! 

****** 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  am  struggling  against  what  I 
see,  while  lying  and  clinging  somewhere;  and  once  I 
even  heard  supernatural  admonitions  in  my  ear,  as  if  I 
were  somewhere  else. 

I  am  looking  for  men — for  the  rescue  of  speech,  of 


i88  LIGHT 

a  word.  How  many  of  them  I  heard,  once  upon  a  time! 
I  want  one  only,  now.  I  am  in  the  regions  where  men 
are  earthed  up, — a  crushed  plain  under  a  dizzy  sky, 
which  goes  by  peopled  with  other  stars  than  those  of 
heaven,  and  tense  with  other  clouds,  and  continually 
lighted  from  flash  to  flash  by  a  daylight  which  is  not 
day. 

Nearer,  one  makes  out  the  human  shape  of  great 
drifts  and  hilly  fields,  many-colored  and  vaguely  floral — 
the  corpse  of  a  section  or  of  a  company.  Nearer  still, 
I  perceive  at  my  feet  the  ugliness  of  skulls.  Yes,  I  have 
seen  them — wounds  as  big  as  men!  In  this  new  cess- 
pool, which  fire  dyes  red  by  night  and  the  multitude  dyes 
red  by  day,  crows  are  staggering,  drunk. 

Yonder,  that  is  the  listening-post,  keeping  watch  over 
the  cycles  of  time.  Five  or  six  captive  sentinels  are 
buried  there  in  that  cistern's  dark,  their  faces  gri- 
macing through  the  vent-hole,  their  skull-caps  barred 
with  red  as  with  gleams  from  hell,  their  mien  desperate 
and  ravenous. 

When  I  ask  them  why  they  are  fighting,  they  say: — 

"To  save  my  country." 

I  am  wandering  on  the  other  side  of  the  immense 
fields  where  the  yellow  puddles  are  strewn  with  black 
ones  (for  blood  soils  even  mud),  and  with  thickets  of 
steel,  and  with  trees  which  are  no  more  than  the  shadows 
of  themselves;  I  hear  the  skeleton  of  my  jaws  shiver 
and  chatter.  In  the  middle  of  the  flayed  and  yawning 
cemetery  of  living  and  dead,  moonlike  in  the  night,  there 
is  a  wide  extent  of  leveled  ruins.  It  was  not  a  village 
that  once  was  there,  it  was  a  hillside  whose  pale  bones 
are  like  those  of  a  village.  The  other  people — mine — 
have  scooped  fragile  holes,  and  traced  disastrous  paths 
with  their  hands  and  with  their  feet.  Their  faces  are 
strained  forward,  their  eyes  search,  they  sniff  the  wind. 

"Why  are  you  fighting?" 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         189 

"To  save  my  country." 

The  two  answers  fall  as  alike  in  the  distance  as  two 
notes  of  a  passing-bell,  as  alike  as  the  voice  of  the  guns. 

And  I — I  am  seeking;  it  is  a  fever,  a  longing,  a  mad- 
ness. I  struggle,  I  would  fain  tear  myself  from  the  soil 
and  take  wing  to  the  truth.  I  am  seeking  the  difference 
between  those  people  who  are  killing  themselves,  and 
I  can  only  find  their  resemblance.  I  cannot  escape  from 
this  resemblance  of  men.  It  terrifies  me,  and  I  try  to 
cry  out,  and  there  come  from  me  strange  and  chaotic 
sounds  which  echo  into  the  unknown,  which  I  almost 
hear! 

They  do  not  wear  similar  clothes  on  the  targets  of 
their  bodies,  and  they  speak  different  tongues;  but  from 
the  bottom  of  that  which  is  human  within  them,  iden- 
tically the  same  simplicities  come  forth.  They  have 
the  same  sorrows  and  the  same  angers,  around  the  same 
causes.  They  are  alike  as  their  wounds  are  alike  and 
will  be  alike.  Their  sayings  are  as  similar  as  the  cries 
that  pain  wrings  from  them,  as  alike  as  the  awful  silence 
that  soon  will  breathe  from  their  murdered  lips.  They 
only  fight  because  they  are  face  to  face.  Against  each 
other,  they  are  pursuing  a  common  end.  Dimly,  they 
kill  themselves  because  they  are  alike. 

And  by  day  and  by  night,  these  two  halves  of  war 
continue  to  lie  in  wait  for  each  other  afar,  to  dig  their 
graves  at  their  feet,  and  I  am  helpless.  They  are  sepa- 
rated by  frontiers  of  gulfs,  which  bristle  with  weapons 
and  explosive  snares,  impassable  to  life.  They  are  sepa- 
rated by  all  that  can  separate,  by  dead  men  and  still 
by  dead  men,  and  ever  thrown  back,  each  into  its  gasp- 
ing islands,  by  black  rivers  and  consecrated  fires,  by 
heroism  and  hatred. 

And  misery  is  endlessly  begotten  of  the  miserable. 


190  LIGHT 

There  is  no  real  reason  for  it  all;  there  is  no  reason. 
I  do  not  wish  it.  I  groan,  I  fall  back. 

Then  the  question,  worn,  but  stubborn  and  violent 
as  a  solid  thing,  seizes  upon  me  again.  Why?  Why? 
I  am  like  the  weeping  wind.  I  seek,  I  defend  myself, 
amid  the  infinite  despair  of  my  mind  and  heart.  I  listen. 
I  remember  all. 

****** 

A  booming  sound  vibrates  and  increases,  like  the  fitful 
wing-beats  of  some  dim,  tumultuous  archangel,  above 
the  heads  of  the  masses  that  move  in  countless  dungeons, 
or  wheel  round  to  furnish  the  front  of  the  lines  with  new 
flesh:— 

"Forward!     It  has  to  be!     You  shall  not  know!" 
I  remember.     I  have  seen  much  of  it,  and  I  see  it 
clearly.    These  multitudes  who  are  set  in  motion  and  let 
loose, — their  brains  and  their  souls  and  their  wills  are  not 

in  them,  but  outside  them! 

****** 

Other  people,  far  away,  think  and  wish  for  them. 
Other  people  wield  their  hands  and  push  them  and  pull 
them,  others,  who  hold  all  their  controlling  threads;  in 
the  distance,  these  people  in  the  center  of  the  infernal 
orbits,  in  the  capital  cities,  in  the  palaces.  There  is  a 
higher  law;  up  above  men  there  is  a  machine  which  is 
stronger  than  men.  The  multitude  is  at  the  same  time 
power  and  impotence — and  I  remember,  and  I  know  well 
that  I  have  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes.  War  is  the  multi- 
tude— and  it  is  not!  Why  did  I  not  know  it  since  I 
have  seen  it? 

Soldier  of  the  wide  world,  you,  the  man  taken  hap- 
hazard from  among  men,  remember — there  was  not  a 
moment  when  you  were  yourself.  Never  did  you  cease 
to  be  bowed  under  the  harsh  and  answerless  command, 
"It  has  to  be,  it  has  to  be."  In  times  of  peace  encircled 
in  the  law  of  incessant  labor,  in  the  mechanical  mill  or 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         191 

the  commercial  mill,  slave  of  the  tool,  of  the  pen,  of  your 
talent,  or  of  some  other  thing,  you  were  tracked  without 
respite  from  morning  to  evening  by  the  daily  task  which 
allowed  you  only  just  to  overcome  life,  and  to  rest  only 
in  dreams. 

When  the  war  comes  that  you  never  wanted — what- 
ever your  country  and  your  name — the  terrible  fate 
which  grips  you  is  sharply  unmasked,  offensive  and  com- 
plicated. The  wind  of  condemnation  has  arisen. 

They  requisition  your  body.  They  lay  hold  on  you 
with  measures  of  menace  which  are  like  legal  arrest, 
from  which  nothing  that  is  poor  and  needy  can  escape. 
They  imprison  you  in  barracks.  They  strip  you  naked 
as  a  worm,  and  dress  you  again  in  a  uniform  which 
obliterates  you;  they  mark  your  neck  with  a  number. 
The  uniform  even  enters  into  your  flesh,  for  you  are 
shaped  and  cut  out  by  the  stamping-machine  of  exer- 
cises. Brightly  clad  strangers  spring  up  about  you,  and 
encircle  you.  You  recognize  them — they  are  not 
strangers.  It  is  a  carnival,  then, — but  a  fierce  and  final 
carnival,  for  these  are  your  new  masters,  they  the  abso- 
lute, proclaiming  on  their  fists  and  heads  their  gilded 
authority.  Such  of  them  as  are  near  to  you  are  them- 
selves only  the  servants  of  others,  who  wear  a  greater 
power  painted  on  their  clothes.  It  is  a  life  of  misery, 
humiliation  and  diminution  into  which  you  fall  from  day 
to  day,  badly  fed  and  badly  treated,  assailed  throughout 
your  body,  spurred  on  by  your  warders'  orders.  At 
every  moment  you  are  thrown  violently  back  into  your 
littleness,  you  are  punished  for  the  least  action  which 
comes  out  of  it,  or  slain  by  the  order  of  your  masters. 
It  is  forbidden  you  to  speak  when  you  would  unite  your- 
self with  the  brother  who  is  touching  you.  The  silence 
of  steel  reigns  around  you.  Your  thoughts  must  be  only 
profound  endurance.  Discipline  is  indispensable  for  the 
multitude  to  be  melted  into  a  single  army;  and  in  spite 


192  LIGHT 

of  the  vague  kinship  which  is  sometimes  set  up  between 
you  and  your  nearest  chief,  the  machine-like  order 
paralyzes  you  first,  so  that  your  body  may  be  the  better 
made  to  move  in  accordance  with  the  rhythm  of  the 
rank  and  the  regiment — into  which,  nullifying  all  that 
is  yourself,  you  pass  already  as  a  sort  of  dead  man. 

"They  gather  us  together  but  they  separate  us!"  cries 
a  voice  from  the  past. 

If  there  are  some  who  escape  through  the  meshes,  it 
means  that  such  "slackers"  are  also  influential.  They 
are  uncommon,  in  spite  of  appearances,  as  the  influen- 
tial are.  You,  the  isolated  man,  the  ordinary  man,  the 
lowly  thousand-millionth  of  humanity,  you  evade  noth- 
ing, and  you  march  right  to  the  end  of  all  that  happens, 
or  to  the  end  of  yourself. 

You  will  be  crushed.  Either  you  will  go  into  the 
charnel  house,  destroyed  by  those  who  are  similar  to  you, 
since  war  is  only  made  by  you,  or  you  will  return  to 
your  point  in  the  world,  diminished  or  diseased,  retain- 
ing only  existence  without  health  or  joy,  a  home-exile 
after  absences  too  long,  impoverished  forever  by  the 
time  you  have  squandered.  Even  if  selected  by  the 
miracle  of  chance,  if  unscathed  in  the  hour  of  victory, 
you  also,  you  will  be  vanquished.  When  you  return  into 
the  insatiable  machine  of  the  work-hours,  among  your 
own  people — whose  misery  the  profiteers  have  meanwhile 
sucked  dry  with  their  passion  for  gain — the  task  will  be 
harder  than  before,  because  of  the  war  that  must  be 
paid  for,  with  all  its  incalculable  consequences.  You 
who  peopled  the  peace-time  prisons  of  your  towns  and 
barns,  begone  to  people  the  immobility  of  the  battle- 
fields— and  if  you  survive,  pay  up!  Pay  for  a  glory 
which  is  not  yours,  or  for  ruins  that  others  have  made 
with  your  hands. 

Suddenly,  in  front  of  me  and  a  few  paces  from  my 
couch — as  if  I  were  in  a  bed,  in  a  bedroom,  and  had  all 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         193 

at  once  woke  up — an  uncouth  shape  rises  awry.  Even 
in  the  darkness  I  see  that  it  is  mangled.  I  see  about  its 
face  something  abnormal  which  dimly  shines;  and  I  can 
see,  too,  by  his  staggering  steps,  sunk  in  the  black  soil, 
that  his  shoes  are  empty.  He  cannot  speak,  but  he 
brings  forward  the  thin  arm  from  which  rags  hang  down 
and  drip;  and  his  imperfect  hand,  as  torturing  to  the 
mind  as  discordant  chords,  points  to  the  place  of  his 
heart.  I  see  that  heart,  buried  in  the  darkness  of  the 
flesh,  in  the  black  blood  of  the  living — for  only  shed 
blood  is  red.  I  see  him  profoundly,  with  my  heart.  If 
he  said  anything  he  would  say  the  words  that  I  still  hear 
falling,  drop  by  drop,  as  I  heard  them  yonder — "Noth- 
ing can  be  done,  nothing."  I  try  to  move,  to  rid  myself 
of  him.  But  I  cannot,  I  am  pinioned  in  a  sort  of  night- 
mare; and  if  he  had  not  himself  faded  away  I  should 
have  stayed  there  forever,  dazzled  in  presence  of  his 
darkness.  This  man  said  nothing.  He  appeared  like 
the  dead  thing  he  is.  He  has  departed.  Perhaps  he  has 
ceased  to  be,  perhaps  he  has  entered  into  death,  which 
is  not  more  mysterious  to  him  than  life,  which  he  is 
leaving — and  I  have  fallen  back  into  myself. 

*  #  #  *  *  * 

He  has  returned,  to  show  his  face  to  me.  Ah,  now 
there  is  a  bandage  round  his  head,  and  so  I  recognize 
him  by  his  crown  of  filth!  I  begin  again  that  moment 
when  I  clasped  him  against  me  to  crush  him;  when  I 
propped  him  against  the  shell,  when  my  arms  felt  his 
bones  cracking  round  his  heart!  It  was  he! — It  was  I! 
He  says  nothing,  from  the  eternal  abysses  in  which  he 
remains  my  brother  in  silence  and  ignorance.  The  re- 
morseful cry  which  tears  my  throat  outstrips  me,  and 
would  find  some  one  else. 

Who? 

That  destiny  which  killed  him  by  means  of  me — has 
it  no  human  faces? 


194  LIGHT 

"Kings!  "said  Termite. 

"The  big  people!"  said  the  man  whom  they  had 
snared,  the  close-cropped  German  prisoner,  the  man  with 
the  convict's  hexagonal  face,  he  who  was  greenish  from 
top  to  toe. 

But  these  kings  and  majesties  and  superhuman  men 
who  are  illuminated  by  fantastic  names  and  never  make 
mistakes — were  they  not  done  away  with  long  since? 
One  does  not  know. 

One  does  not  see  those  who  rule.  One  only  sees  what 
they  wish,  and  what  they  do  with  the  others. 

Why  have  They  always  command?  One  does  not 
know.  The  multitudes  have  not  given  themselves  to 
Them.  They  have  taken  them  and  They  keep  them. 
Their  power  is  supernatural.  It  is,  because  it  was.  This 
is  its  explanation  and  formula  and  breath — "It  has  to 
be." 

As  they  have  laid  hold  of  arms,  so  they  lay  hold  of 
heads,  and  make  a  creed. 

"They  tell  you,"  cried  he,  whom  none  of  the  lowly  sol- 
diers would  deign  to  listen  to;  "they  say  to  you,  'This 
is  what  you  must  have  in  your  minds  and  hearts.' " 

An  inexorable  religion  has  fallen  from  them  upon  us 
all,  upholding  what  exists,  preserving  what  is. 

Suddenly  I  hear  beside  me,  as  if  I  were  in  a  file  of 
the  executed,  a  stammering  death-agony;  and  I  think  I 
see  him  who  struggled  like  a  stricken  vulture,  on  the 
earth  that  was  bloated  with  dead.  And  his  words  enter 
my  heart  more  distinctly  than  when  they  were  still  alive; 
and  they  wound  me  like  blows  at  once  of  darkness  and 
of  light. 

"Men  must  not  open  their  eyes!" 

"Faith  comes  at  will,  like  the  rest!"  said  Adjutant 
Marcassin,  as  he  fluttered  in  his  red  trousers  about  the 
ranks,  like  a  blood-stained  priest  of  the  God  of  War. 

He  was  right!    He  had  gfasped  the  chains  of  bondage 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         195 

when  he  hurled  that  true  cry  against  the  truth.  Every 
man  is  something  of  account,  but  ignorance  isolates  and 
resignation  scatters.  Every  poor  man  carries  within  him 
centuries  of  indifference  and  servility.  He  is  a  defense- 
less prey  for  hatred  and  dazzlement. 

The  man  of  the  people  whom  I  am  looking  for,  while 
I  writhe  through  confusion  as  through  mud,  the  worker 
who  measures  his  strength  against  toil  which  is  greater 
than  he,  and  who  never  escapes  from  hardships,  the  serf 
of  these  days — I  see  him  as  if  he  were  here.  He  is  com- 
ing out  of  his  shop  at  the  bottom  of  the  court.  He  wears 
a  square  cap.  One  makes  out  the  shining  dust  of  old 
age  strewn  in  his  stubbly  beard.  He  chews  and  smokes 
his  foul  and  noisy  pipe.  He  nods  his  head;  with  a  fine 
and  sterling  smile  he  says,  "There's  always  been  war,  so 
there'll  always  be." 

And  all  around  him  people  nod  their  heads  and  think 
the  same,  in  the  poor  lonely  well  of  their  heart.  They 
hold  the  conviction  anchored  to  the  bottom  of  their 
brains  that  things  can  never  change  any  more.  They 
are  like  posts  and  paving  stones,  distinct  but  cemented 
together;  they  believe  that  the  life  of  the  world  is  a  sort 
of  great  stone  monument,  and  they  obey,  obscurely  and 
indistinctly,  everything  which  commands;  and  they  do 
not  look  afar,  in  spite  of  the  little  children.  And  I  re- 
member the  readiness  there  was  to  yield  themselves,  body 
and  soul,  to  serried  resignation.  Then,  too,  there  is  alco- 
hol which  murders;  wine,  which  drowns. 

One  does  not  see  the  kings;  one  only  sees  the  reflec- 
tion of  them  on  the  multitude. 

There  are  bemusings  and  spells  of  fascination,  of  which 
we  are  the  object.  I  think,  fascinated. 

My  lips  religiously  recite  a  passage  in  a  book  which  a 
young  man  has  just  read  to  me,  while  I,  quite  a  child, 
lean  drowsily  on  the  kitchen  table — "Roland  is  not  dead. 
Through  long  centuries  our  splendid  ancestor,  the  war- 


196  LIGHT 

nor  of  warriors,  has  been  seen  riding  over  the  mountains 
and  hills  across  the  France  of  Charlemagne  and  Hugh 
the  Great.  At  all  times  of  great  national  disaster  he  has 
risen  before  the  people's  eyes,  like  an  omen  of  victory 
and  glory,  with  his  lustrous  helmet  and  his  sword.  He 
has  appeared  and  has  halted  like  a  soldier-archangel  over 
the  flaming  horizon  of  conflagrations  or  the  dark  mounds 
of  battle  and  pestilence,  leaning  over  his  horse's  winged 
mane,  fantastically  swaying  as  though  the  earth  itself 
were  inebriate  with  pride.  Everywhere  he  has  been  seen, 
reviving  the  ideals  and  the  prowess  of  the  Past.  He  was 
seen  in  Austria,  at  the  time  of  the  eternal  quarrel  be- 
tween Pope  and  Emperor;  he  was  seen  above  the  strange 
stirrings  of  Scythians  and  Arabs,  and  the  glowing  civi- 
lizations which  arose  and  fell  like  waves  around  the  Medi- 
terranean. Great  Roland  can  never  die." 

And  after  he  had  read  these  lines  of  a  legend,  the 
young  man  made  me  admire  them,  and  looked  at  me. 

He  whom  I  thus  see  again,  as  precisely  as  one  sees  a 
portrait,  just  as  he  was  that  evening  so  wonderfully  far 
away,  was  my  father.  And  I  remember  how  devoutly 
I  believed — from  that  day  now  buried  among  them  all — 
in  the  beauty  of  those  things,  because  my  father  had 
told  me  they  were  beautiful. 

In  the  low  room  of  the  old  house,  under  the  green 
and  watery  gleam  of  the  diamond  panes  in  the  lancet 
window,  the  ancient  citizen  cries,  "There  are  people  mad 
enough  to  believe  that  a  day  will  come  when  Brittany 
will  no  longer  be  at  war  with  Maine!"  He  appears  in 
the  vortex  of  the  past,  and  so  saying,  sinks  back  in  it. 
And  an  engraving,  once  and  for  a  long  time  heeded, 
again  takes  life:  Standing  on  the  wooden  boom  of  the 
ancient  port,  his  scarred  doublet  rusted  by  wind  and 
brine,  his  old  back  bellied  like  a  sail,  the  pirate  is  shak- 
ing his  fist  at  the  frigate  that  passes  in  the  distance;  and 
leaning  over  the  tangle  of  tarred  beams,  as  he  used  to 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         197 

on  the  nettings  of  his  corsair  ship,  he  predicts  his  race's 
eternal  hatred  for  the  English. 

"Russia  a  republic!"  We  raise  our  arms  to  heaven. 
"Germany  a  republic!"  We  raise  our  arms  to  heaven. 

And  the  great  voices,  the  poets,  the  singers — what  have 
the  great  voices  said?  They  have  sung  the  praises  of 
the  victor's  laurels  without  knowing  what  they  are.  You, 
old  Homer,  bard  of  the  lisping  tribes  of  the  coasts,  with 
your  serene  and  venerable  face  sculptured  in  the  likeness 
of  your  great  childlike  genius,  with  your  three  times  mil- 
lennial lyre  and  your  empty  eyes — you  who  led  us  to 
Poetry!  And  you,  herd  of  poets  enslaved,  who  did  not 
understand,  who  lived  before  you  could  understand,  in 
an  age  when  great  men  were  only  the  domestics  of  great 
lords — and  you,  too,  servants  of  the  resounding  and  opu- 
lent pride  of  to-day,  eloquent  flatterers  and  magnificent 
dunces,  you  unwitting  enemies  of  mankind!  You  have 
all  sung  the  laurel  wreath  without  knowing  what  it  is. 

There  are  dazzlings,  and  solemnities  and  ceremonies, 
to  amuse  and  excite  the  common  people,  to  dim  their 
sight  with  bright  colors,  with  the  glitter  of  the  badges 
and  stars  that  are  crumbs  of  royalty,  to  inflame  them 
with  the  jingle  of  bayonets  and  medals,  with  trumpets 
and  trombones  and  the  big  drum,  and  to  inspire  the 
demon  of  war  in  the  excitable  feelings  of  women  and  the 
inflammable  credulity  of  the  young.  I  see  the  triumphal 
arches,  the  military  displays  in  the  vast  amphitheaters 
of  public  places,  and  the  march  past  of  those  who  go  to 
die,  who  walk  in  step  to  hell  by  reason  of  their  strength 
and  youth,  and  the  hurrahs  for  war,  and  the  real  pride 
which  the  lowly  feel  in  bending  the  knee  before  their 
masters  and  saying,  as  their  cavalcade  tops  the  hill,  "It's 
fine!  They  might  be  galloping  over  us!"  "It's  mag- 
nificent, how  warlike  we  are!"  says  the  woman,  always 
dazzled,  as  she  convulsively  squeezes  the  arm  of  him  who 
is  going  away. 


198  LIGHT 

And  another  kind  of  excitement  takes  form  and  seizes 
me  by  the  throat  in  the  pestilential  pits  of  hell — "They're 
on  fire,  they're  on  fire!"  stammers  that  soldier,  breathless 
as  his  empty  rifle,  as  the  flood  of  the  exalted  German 
divisions  advances,  linked  elbow  to  elbow  under  a  godlike 
halo  of  ether,  to  drown  the  deeps  with  their  single  lives. 

Ah,  the  intemperate  shapes  and  unities  that  float  in 
morsels  above  the  peopled  precipices!  When  two  over- 
lords, jewel-set  with  glittering  General  Staffs,  proclaim 
at  the  same  time  on  either  side  of  their  throbbing  mo- 
bilized frontiers,  "We  will  save  our  country!"  there  is 
one  immensity  deceived  and  two  victimized.  There  are 
two  deceived  immensities! 

There  is  nothing  else.  That  these  cries  can  be  uttered 
together  in  the  face  of  heaven,  in  the  face  of  truth,  proves 
at  a  stroke  the  monstrosity  of  the  laws  which  rule  us, 
and  the  madness  of  the  gods. 

I  turn  on  a  bed  of  pain  to  escape  from  the  horrible 
vision  of  masquerade,  from  the  fantastic  absurdity  into 
which  all  these  things  are  brought  back;  and  my  fever 
seeks  again. 

Those  bright  spells  which  blind,  and  the  darkness 
which  also  blinds.  Falsehood  rules  with  those  who  rule, 
effacing  Resemblance  everywhere,  and  everywhere  creat- 
ing Difference. 

Nowhere  can  one  turn  aside  from  falsehood.  Where 
indeed  is  there  none?  The  linked-up  lies,  the  invisible 
chain,  the  Chain! 

Murmurs  and  shouts  alike  cross  in  confusion.  Here 
and  yonder,  to  right  and  to  left,  they  make  pretense. 
Truth  never  reaches  as  far  as  men.  News  filters  through, 
false  or  atrophied.  On  this  side — all  is  beautiful  and 
disinterested;  yonder — the  same  things  are  infamous. 
"French  militarism  is  not  the  same  thing  as  Prussian 
militarism,  since  one's  French  and  the  other's  Prussian." 
The  newspapers,  the  somber  host  of  the  great  prevailing 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         199 

newspapers,  fall  upon  the  minds  of  men  and  wrap  them 
up.  The  daily  siftings  link  them  together  and  chain 
them  up,  and  forbid  them  to  look  ahead.  And  the  im- 
pecunious papers  show  blanks  in  the  places  where  the 
truth  was  too  clearly  written.  At  the  end  of  a  war,  the 
last  things  to  be  known  by  the  children  of  the  slain  and 
by  the  mutilated  and  worn-out  survivors  will  be  all  the 
war-aims  of  its  directors. 

Suddenly  they  reveal  to  the  people  an  accomplished 
fact  which  has  been  worked  out  in  the  terra  incognita  of 
courts,  and  they  say,  "Now  that  it  is  too  late,  only  one 
resource  is  left  you — Kill  that  you  be  not  killed." 

They  brandish  the  superficial  incident  which  in  the 
last  hour  has  caused  the  armaments  and  the  heaped-up 
resentment  and  intrigues  to  overflow  in  war;  and  they 
say,  "That  is  the  only  cause  of  the  war."  It  is  not  true; 
the  only  cause  of  war  is  the  slavery  of  those  whose  flesh 
wages  it. 

They  say  to  the  people,  "When  once  victory  is  gained, 
agreeably  to  your  masters,  all  tyranny  will  have  dis- 
appeared as  if  by  magic,  and  there  will  be  peace  on 
earth."  It  is  not  true.  There  will  be  no  peace  on  earth 
until  the  reign  of  men  is  come. 

But  will  it  ever  come?  Will  it  have  time  to  come, 
while  hollow-eyed  humanity  makes  such  haste  to  die? 
For  all  this  advertisement  of  war,  radiant  in  the  sun- 
shine, all  these  temporary  and  mendacious  reasons,  stu- 
pidly or  skillfully  curtailed,  of  which  not  one  reaches  the 
lofty  elevation  of  the  common  welfare — all  these  insuffi- 
cient pretexts  suffice  in  sum  to  make  the  artless  man 
bow  in  bestial  ignorance,  to  adorn  him  with  iron  and 
forge  him  at  will. 

"It  is  not  on  Reason,"  cried  the  specter  of  the  battle- 
field, whose  torturing  spirit  was  breaking  away  from  his 
still  gilded  body;  "it  is  not  on  Reason  that  the  Bible  of 
History  stands.  Else  are  the  law  of  majesties  and  the 


200  LIGHT 

ancient  quarrel  of  the  flags  essentially  supernatural  and 
intangible,  or  the  old  world  is  built  on  principles  of  in- 
sanity." 

He  touches  me  with  his  strong  hand  and  I  try  to  shake 
myself,  and  I  stumble  curiously,  although  lying  down. 
A  clamor  booms  in  my  temples  and  then  thunders  like 
the  guns  in  my  ears;  it  overflows  me, — I  drown  in  that 
cry 

"It  must  be!  It  has  to  be!  You  shall  not  know!" 
That  is  the  war-cry,  that  is  the  cry  of  war. 

****** 

War  will  come  again  after  this  one.  It  will  come  again 
as  long  as  it  can  be  determined  by  people  other  than 
those  who  fight.  The  same  causes  will  produce  the  same 
effects,  and  the  living  will  have  to  give  up  all  hope. 

We  cannot  say  out  of  what  historical  conjunctions  the 
final  tempests  will  issue,  nor  by  what  fancy  names  the 
interchangeable  ideals  imposed  on  men  will  be  known  in 
that  moment.  But  the  cause — that  will  perhaps  every- 
where be  fear  of  the  nations'  real  freedom.  What  we  do 
know  is  that  the  tempests  will  come. 

Armaments  will  increase  every  year  amid  dizzy  en- 
thusiasm. The  relentless  torture  of  precision  seizes  me. 
We  do  three  years  of  military  training;  our  children  will 
do  five,  they  will  do  ten.  We  pay  two  thousand  million 
francs  a  year  in  preparation  for  war;  we  shall  pay 
twenty,  we  shall  pay  fifty  thousand  millions.  All  that 
we  have  will  be  taken;  it  will  be  robbery,  insolvency, 
bankruptcy.  War  kills  wealth  as  it  does  men;  it  goes 
away  in  ruins  and  smoke,  and  one  cannot  fabricate  gold 
any  more  than  soldiers.  We  no  longer  know  how  to 
count;  we  no  longer  know  anything.  A  billion — a  million 
millions — the  word  appears  to  me  printed  on  the  empti- 
ness of  things.  It  sprang  yesterday  out  of  war,  and  I 
shrink  in  dismay  from  the  new,  incomprehensible  word. 

There  will  be  nothing  else  on  the  earth  but  prepara- 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         2011 

tion  for  war.  All  living  forces  will  be  absorbed  by  it; 
it  will  monopolize  all  discovery,  all  science,  all  imagina- 
tion. Supremacy  in  the  air  alone,  the  regular  levies  for 
the  control  of  space,  will  suffice  to  squander  a  nation's 
fortune.  For  aerial  navigation,  at  its  birth  in  the  middle 
of  envious  circles,  has  become  a  rich  prize  which  every- 
body desires,  a  prey  they  have  immeasurably  torn  in 
pieces. 

Other  expenditure  will  dry  up  before  that  on  destruc- 
tion does,  and  other  longings  as  well,  and  all  the  reasons 
for  living.  Such  will  be  the  sense  of  humanity's  last 
age. 

****** 

The  battlefields  were  prepared  long  ago.  They  cover 
entire  provinces  with  one  black  city,  with  a  great  metal- 
lic reservoir  of  factories,  where  iron  floors  and  furnaces 
tremble,  bordered  by  a  land  of  forests  whose  trees  are 
steel,  and  of  wells  where  sleeps  the  sharp  blackness  of 
snares;  a  country  navigated  by  frantic  groups  of  rail- 
way trains  hi  parallel  formation,  and  heavy  as  attacking 
columns.  At  whatever  point  you  may  be  on  the  plain, 
even  if  you  turn  away,  even  if  you  take  flight,  the  bright 
tentacles  of  the  rails  diverge  and  shine,  and  cloudy 
sheaves  of  wires  rise  into  the  air.  Upon  that  territory  of 
execution  there  rises  and  falls  and  writhes  machinery  so 
complex  that  it  has  not  even  names,  so  vast  that  it  has 
not  even  shape;  for  aloft — above  the  booming  whirl- 
winds which  are  linked  from  east  to  west  in  the  glow  of 
molten  metal  whose  flashes  are  great  as  those  of  light- 
houses, or  in  the  pallor  of  scattered  electric  constella- 
tions— hardly  can  one  make  out  the  artificial  outline  of 
a  mountain  range,  clapped  upon  space. 

This  immense  city  of  immense  low  buildings,  rectangu- 
lar and  dark,  is  not  a  city.  They  are  assaulting  tanks, 
which  a  feeble  internal  gesture  sets  in  motion,  ready  for 
the  rolling  rush  of  their  gigantic  knee-caps.  These  end- 


202  LIGHT 

less  cannon,  thrust  into  pits  which  search  into  the  fiery 
entrails  of  the  earth,  and  stand  there  upright,  hardly 
leaning  so  much  as  Pisa's  tower;  and  these  slanting  tubes, 
long  as  factory  chimneys,  so  long  that  perspective  distorts 
their  lines  and  sometimes  splays  them  like  the  trumpets 
of  Apocalypse — these  are  not  cannon;  they  are  machine- 
guns,  fed  by  continuous  ribbons  of  trains  which  scoop 
out  in  entire  regions — and  upon  a  country,  if  need  be — 
mountains  of  profundity. 

In  war,  which  was  once  like  the  open  country  and  is 
now  wholly  like  towns — and  even  like  one  immense 
building — one  hardly  sees  the  men.  On  the  round-ways 
and  the  casemates,  the  footbridges  and  the  movable  plat- 
forms, among  the  labyrinth  of  concrete  caves,  above  the 
regiment  echelonned  downwards  in  the  gulf  and  enor- 
mously upright, — one  sees  a  haggard  herd  of  wan  and 
stooping  men,  men  black  and  trickling,  men  issuing  from 
the  peaty  turf  of  night,  men  who  came  there  to  save  their 
country.  They  earthed  themselves  up  in  some  zone  of 
the  vertical  gorges,  and  one  sees  them,  in  this  more  ac- 
cursed corner  than  those  where  the  hurricane  reels.  One 
senses  this  human  material,  in  the  cavities  of  those 
smooth  grottoes,  like  Dante's  guilty  shades.  Infernal 
glimmers  disclose  ranged  lines  of  them,  as  long  as  roads, 
slender  and  trembling  spaces  of  night,  which  daylight 
and  even  sunshine  leave  befouled  with  darkness  and 
cyclopean  dirt.  Solid  clouds  overhang  them  and  hatchet- 
charged  hurricanes,  and  leaping  flashes  set  fire  every 
second  to  the  sky's  iron-mines  up  above  the  damned 
whose  pale  faces  change  not  under  the  ashes  of  death. 
They  wait,  intent  on  the  solemnity  and  the  significance 
of  that  vast  and  heavy  booming  against  which  they  are 
for  the  moment  imprisoned.  They  will  be  down  forever 
around  the  spot  where  they  are.  Like  others  before 
them,  they  will  be  shrouded  in  perfect  oblivion.  Their 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         203 

cries  will  rise  above  the  earth  no  more  than  their  lips. 
Their  glory  will  not  quit  their  poor  bodies. 

I  am  borne  away  in  one  of  the  aeroplanes  whose  mul- 
titude darkens  the  light  of  day  as  flights  of  arrows  do 
in  children's  story-books,  forming  a  vaulted  army.  They 
are  a  fleet  which  can  disembark  a  million  men  and  their 
supplies  anywhere  at  any  moment.  It  is  only  a  few 
years  since  we  heard  the  puling  cry  of  the  first  aero- 
planes, and  now  their  voice  drowns  all  others.  Their 
development  has  only  normally  proceeded,  yet  they  alone 
suffice  to  make  the  territorial  safeguards  demanded  by 
the  deranged  of  former  generations  appear  at  last  to  all 
people  as  comical  jests.  Swept  along  by  the  engine's 
formidable  weight,  a  thousand  times  more  powerful  than 
it  is  heavy,  tossing  in  space  and  filling  my  fibers  with  its 
roar,  I  see  the  dwindling  mounds  where  the  huge  tubes 
stick  up  like  swarming  pins.  I  am  carried  along  at  a 
height  of  two  thousand  yards.  An  air-pocket  has  seized 
me  in  a  corridor  of  cloud,  and  I  have  fallen  like  a  stone 
a  thousand  yards  lower,  garrotted  by  furious  air  which 
is  cold  as  a  blade,  and  filled  by  a  plunging  cry.  I  have 
seen  conflagrations  and  the  explosions  of  mines,  and 
plumes  of  smoke  which  flow  disordered  and  spin  out  in 
long  black  zigzags  like  the  locks  of  the  God  of  War! 
I  have  seen  the  concentric  circles  by  which  the  stippled 
multitude  is  ever  renewed.  The  dugouts,  lined  with 
lifts,  descend  in  oblique  parallels  into  the  depths.  One 
frightful  night  I  saw  the  enemy  flood  it  all  with  an  in- 
exhaustible torrent  of  liquid  fire.  I  had  a  vision  of  that 
black  and  rocky  valley  filled  to  the  brim  with  the  lava- 
stream  which  dazzled  the  sight  and  sent  a  dreadful  ter- 
restrial dawn  into  the  whole  of  night.  With  its  heart 
aflame  Earth  seemed  to  become  transparent  as  glass 
along  that  crevasse;  and  amid  the  lake  of  fire  heaps  of 
living  beings  floated  on  some  raft,  and  writhed  like  the 
spirits  of  damnation.  The  other  men  fled  upwards,  and 


204  LIGHT 

piled  themselves  in  clusters  on  the  straight-lined  borders 
of  the  valley  of  filth  and  tears.  I  saw  those  swarming 
shadows  huddled  on  the  upper  brink  of  the  long  ar- 
mored chasms  which  the  explosions  set  trembling  like 
steamships. 

All  chemistry  makes  flaming  fireworks  in  the  sky  or 
spreads  in  sheets  of  poison  exactly  as  huge  as  the  huge 
towns.  Against  them  no  wall  avails,  no  secret  armor; 
and  murder  enters  as  invisibly  as  death  itself.  Industry 
multiplies  its  magic.  Electricity  lets  loose  its  lightnings 
and  thunders — and  that  miraculous  mastery  which  hurls 
power  like  a  projectile. 

Who  can  say  if  this  enormous  might  of  electricity 
alone  will  not  change  the  face  of  war? — the  centralized 
cluster  of  waves,  the  irresistible  orbs  going  infinitely 
forth  to  fire  and  destroy  all  explosives,  lifting  the  rooted 
armor  of  the  earth,  choking  the  subterranean  gulfs  with 
heaps  of  calcined  men — who  will  be  burned  up  like  bar- 
ren coal, — and  maybe  even  arousing  the  earthquakes, 
and  tearing  the  central  fires  from  earth's  depths  like 
ore! 

That  will  be  seen  by  people  who  are  alive  to-day;  and 
yet  that  vision  of  the  future  so  near  at  hand  is  only  a 
slight  magnification,  flitting  through  the  brain.  It  ter- 
rifies one  to  think  for  how  short  a  time  science  has  been 
methodical  and  of  useful  industry;  and  after  all,  is  there 
anything  on  earth  more  marvelously  easy  than  destruc- 
tion? Who  knows  the  new  mediums  it  has  laid  in  store? 
Who  knows  the  limit  of  cruelty  to  which  the  art  of 
poisoning  may  go?  Who  knows  if  they  will  not  subject 
and  impress  epidemic  disease  as  they  do  the  living  armies 
— or  that  it  will  not  emerge,  meticulous,  invincible,  from 
the  armies  of  the  dead?  Who  knows  by  what  dread 
means  they  will  sink  in  oblivion  this  war,  which  only 
struck  to  the  ground  twenty  thousand  men  a  day,  which 
has  invented  guns  of  only  seventy-five  miles'  range, 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         205 

bombs  of  only  one  ton's  weight,  aeroplanes  of  only  a 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  an  hour,  tanks,  and  submarines 
which  cross  the  Atlantic?  Their  costs  have  not  yet 
reached  in  any  country  the  sum  total  of  private  for- 
tunes. 

But  the  upheavals  we  catch  sight  of,  though  we  can 
only  and  hardly  indicate  them  in  figures,  will  be  too 
much  for  life.  The  desperate  and  furious  disappearance 
of  soldiers  will  have  a  limit.  We  may  no  longer  be  able 
to  count;  but  Fate  will  count.  Some  day  the  men  will 
be  killed,  and  the  women  and  children.  And  they  also 
will  disappear — they  who  stand  erect  upon  the  ignomin- 
ious death  of  the  soldiers, — they  will  disappear  along 
with  the  huge  and  palpitating  pedestal  in  which  they 
were  rooted.  But  they  profit  by  the  present,  they  be- 
lieve it  will  last  as  long  as  they,  and  as  they  follow  each 
other  they  say,  "After  us,  the  deluge."  Some  day  all 
war  will  cease  for  want  of  fighters. 

The  spectacle  of  to-morrow  is  one  of  agony.  Wise 
men  make  laughable  efforts  to  determine  what  may  be, 
in  the  ages  to  come,  the  cause  of  the  inhabited  world's 
end.  Will  it  be  a  comet,  the  rarefaction  of  water,  or  the 
extinction  of  the  sun,  that  will  destroy  mankind?  They 
have  forgotten  the  likeliest  and  nearest  cause — Suicide. 

They  who  say,  "There  will  always  be  war,"  do  not 
know  what  they  are  saying.  They  are  preyed  upon  by 
!  the  common  internal  malady  of  shortsight.  They  think 
themselves  full  of  common-sense  as  they  think  them- 
selves full  of  honesty.  In  reality,  they  are  revealing  the 
clumsy  and  limited  mentality  of  the  assassins  them- 
selves. 

The  shapeless  struggle  of  the  elements  will  begin  again 
on  the  seared  earth  when  men  have  slain  themselves 
because  they  were  slaves,  because  they  believed  the  same 
things,  because  they  were  alike. 


206  LIGHT 

I  utter  a  cry  of  despair  and  it  seems  as  if  I  had  turned 
over  and  stifled  it  in  a  pillow. 

****** 

All  is  madness.  And  there  is  no  one  who  will  dare  to 
rise  and  say  that  all  is  not  madness,  and  that  the  future 
does  not  so  appear — as  fatal  and  unchangeable  as  a 
memory. 

But  how  many  men  will  there  be  who  will  dare,  in 
face  of  the  universal  deluge  which  will  be  at  the  end  as 
it  was  in  the  beginning,  to  get  up  and  cry  "No I"  who 
will  pronounce  the  terrible  and  irrefutable  issue: — 

"No!  The  interests  of  the  people  and  the  interests 
of  all  tjeir  present  overlords  are  not  the  same.  Upon 
the  world's  antiquity  there  are  two  enemy  races — the 
great  and  the  little.  The  allies  of  the  great  are,  in  spite 
of  appearances,  the  great.  The  allies  of  the  people  are 
the  people.  Here  on  earth  there  is  one  tribe  only  of 
parasites  and  ringleaders  who  are  the  victors,  and  one 
people  only  who  are  the  vanquished." 

But,  as  in  those  earliest  ages,  will  not  thoughtful  faces 
arise  out  of  the  darkness?  (For  this  is  Chaos  and  the 
animal  Kingdom;  and  Reason  being  no  more,  she  has 
yet  to  be  born.) 

"You  must  think;  but  with  your  own  ideas,  not  other 
people's." 

That  lowly  saying,  a  straw  whirling  in  the  measure- 
less hand-to-hand  struggle  of  the  armies,  shines  in  my 
soul  above  all  others.  To  think  is  to  hold  that  the 
masses  have  so  far  wrought  too  much  evil  without  wish- 
ing it,  and  that  the  ancient  authorities,  everywhere  cling- 
ing fast,  violate  humanity  and  separate  the  inseparable. 

There  have  been  those  who  magnificently  dared. 
There  have  been  bearers  of  the  truth,  men  who  groped 
in  the  world's  tumult,  trying  to  make  plain  order  of  it. 
They  discover  what  we  did  not  yet  know;  chiefly  they 
discover  what  we  no  longer  knew. 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         207 

But  what  a  panic  is  here,  among  the  powerful  and  the 
powers  that  be! 

"Truth  is  revolutionary  1  Get  you  gone,  truth-bearers! 
Away  with  you,  reformers!  You  bring  in  the  reign  of 
men!" 

That  cry  was  thrown  into  my  ears  one  tortured  night, 
like  a  whisper  from  deeps  below,  when  he  of  the  broken 
wings  was  dying,  when  he  struggled  tumultuously  against 
the  opening  of  men's  eyes;  but  I  had  always  heard  it 
round  about  me,  always. 

In  official  speeches,  sometimes,  at  moments  of  great 
public  flattery,  they  speak  like  the  reformers,  but  that  is 
only  the  diplomacy  which  aims  at  felling  them  better. 
They  force  the  light-bearers  to  hide  themselves  and  their 
torches.  These  dreamers,  these  visionaries,  these  star- 
gazers, — they  are  hooted  and  derided.  Laughter  is  let 
loose  around  them,  machine-made  laughter,  quarrelsome 
and  beastly: — 

"Your  notion  of  peace  is  only  Utopian,  anyway,  as 
long  as  you  never,  any  day,  stopped  the  war  by  your- 
self!" 

They  point  to  the  battlefield  and  its  wreckage: — 

"And  you  say  that  War  won't  be  forever?  Look, 
driveler!" 

The  circle  of  the  setting  sun  is  crimsoning  the  mingled 
horizon  of  humanity: — 

"You  say  that  the  sun  is  bigger  than  the  earth?  Look, 
imbecile!" 

They  are  anathema,  they  are  sacrilegious,  they  are 
excommunicated,  who  impeach  the  magic  of  the  past 
and  the  poison  of  tradition.  And  the  thousand  million 
victims  themselves  scoff  at  and  strike  those  who  rebel, 
as  soon  as  they  are  able.  All  cast  stones  at  them,  all, 
even  those  who  suffer  and  while  they  are  suffering — 
even  the  sacrificed,  a  little  before  they  die. 

The  bleeding  soldiers  of  Wagram  cry:    "Long  live  the 


208  LIGHT 

emperor  1"  And  the  mournful  exploited  in  the  streets 
cheer  for  the  defeat  of  those  who  are  trying  to  alleviate 
a  suffering  which  is  brother  to  theirs.  Others,  prostrate 
in  resignation,  look  on,  and  echo  what  is  said  above 
them:  "After  us  the  deluge,"  and  the  saying  passes 
across  town  and  country  in  one  enormous  and  fantastic 
breath,  for  they  are  innumerable  who  murmur  it.  Ah, 
it  was  well  said: 

"I  have  confidence  in  the  abyss  of  the  people." 
****** 

And  I? 

I,  the  normal  man?  What  have  I  done  on  earth? 
I  have  bent  the  knee  to  the  forces  which  glitter,  without 
seeking  to  know  whence  they  came  and  whither  they 
guide.  How  have  the  eyes  availed  me  that  I  had  to  see 
with,  the  intelligence  that  I  had  to  judge  with? 

Borne  down  by  shame,  I  sobbed,  "I  don't  know,"  and 
I  cried  out  so  loudly  that  it  seemed  to  me  I  was  awak- 
ing for  a  moment  out  of  slumber.  Hands  are  holding 
and  calming  me;  they  draw  my  shroud  about  me  and 
enclose  me. 

It  seems  to  me  that  a  shape  has  leaned  over  me,  quite 
near,  so  near;  that  a  loving  voice  has  said  something 
to  me;  and  then  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  listened  to 
fond  accents  whose  caress  came  from  a  great  way  off: 

"Why  shouldn't  you  be  one  of  them,  my  lad, — one  of 
those  great  prophets?" 

I  don't  understand.    I?    How  could  I  be? 

All  my  thoughts  go  blurred.  I  am  falling  again.  But 
I  bear  away  in  my  eyes  the  picture  of  an  iron  bed  where 
lay  a  rigid  shape.  Around  it  other  forms  were  droop- 
ing, and  one  stood  and  officiated.  But  the  curtain  of 
that  vision  is  drawn.  A  great  plain  opens  the  room, 
which  had  closed  for  a  moment  on  me,  and  obliterates  it. 

Which  way  may  I  look?    God?    "Miserere "  The 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI         209 

vibrating  fragment  of  the  Litany  has  reminded  me  of 

God. 

****** 

I  had  seen  Jesus  Christ  on  the  margin  of  the  lake. 
He  came  like  an  ordinary  man  along  the  path.  There 
is  no  halo  round  his  head.  He  is  only  disclosed  by  his 
pallor  and  his  gentleness.  Planes  of  light  draw  near 
and  mass  themselves  and  fade  away  around  him.  He 
shines  in  the  sky,  as  he  shone  on  the  water.  As  they 
have  told  of  him,  his  beard  and  hair  are  the  color  of 
wine.  He  looks  upon  the  immense  stain  made  by  Chris- 
tians on  the  world,  a  stain  confused  and  dark,  whose 
edge  alone,  down  on  His  bare  feet,  has  human  shape 
and  crimson  color.  In  the  middle  of  it  are  anthems  and 
burnt  sacrifices,  files  of  hooded  cloaks,  and  of  torturers, 
armed  with  battle-axes,  halberds  and  bayonets;  and 
among  long  clouds  and  thickets  of  armies,  the  opposing 
clash  of  two  crosses  which  have  not  quite  the  same  shape. 
Close  to  him,  too,  on  a  canvas  wall,  again  I  see  the  cross 
that  bleeds.  There  are  populations,  too,  tearing  them- 
selves in  twain  that  they  may  tear  themselves  the  better; 
there  is  the  ceremonious  alliance,  "turning  the  needy  out 
of  the  way,"  of  those  who  wear  three  crowns  and  those 
who  wear  one;  and,  whispering  in  the  ear  of  Kings,  there 
are  gray-haired  Eminences,  and  cunning  monks,  whose 
hue  is  of  darkness. 

I  saw  the  man  of  light  and  simplicity  bow  his  head; 
and  I  feel  his  wonderful  voice  saying: 

"I  did  not  deserve  the  evil  they  have  done  unto  me." 

Robbed  reformer,  he  is  a  witness  of  his  name's  fero- 
cious glory.  The  greed-impassioned  money-changers 
have  long  since  chased  Him  from  the  temple  in  their 
turn,  and  put  the  priests  in  his  place.  He  is  crucified 
on  every  crucifix. 

Yonder  among  the  fields  are  churches,  demolished  by 
war:  and  already  men  are  coming  with  mattock  and 


210  LIGHT 

masonry  to  raise  the  walls  again.    The  ray  of  his  out- 
stretched arm  shines  in  space,  and  his  clear  voice  says: 
"Build  not  the  churches  again.     They  are  not  what 
you  think  they  were.    Build  them  not  again." 

****** 

There  is  no  remedy  but  in  them  whom  peace  sen- 
tences to  hard  labor,  and  whom  war  sentences  to  death. 

There  is  no  redress  except  among  the  poor. 

****** 

White  shapes  seem  to  return  into  the  white  room. 
Truth  is  simple.  They  who  say  that  truth  is  compli- 
cated deceive  themselves,  and  the  truth  is  not  in  them. 
I  see  again,  not  far  from  me,  a  bed,  a  child,  a  girl-child, 
who  is  asleep  in  our  house;  her  eyes  are  only  two  lines. 
Into  our  house,  after  a  very  long  time,  we  have  led  my 
old  aunt.  She  approves  affectionately,  but  all  the  same 
she  said,  very  quietly,  as  she  left  the  perfection  of  our 
room,  "It  was  better  in  my  time."  I  am  thrilled  by  one 
of  our  windows,  whose  wings  are  opened  wide  upon  the 
darkness;  the  appeal  which  the  chasm  of  that  window 
makes  across  the  distances  enters  into  me.  One  night, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  it  was  open  to  its  heart. 

7 — my  heart — a  gaping  heart,  enthroned  in  a  radiance 
of  blood.  It  is  mine,  it  is  ours.  The  heart — that  wound 
which  we  have.  I  have  compassion  on  myself. 

I  see  again  the  rainy  shore  that  I  saw  before  time 
was,  before  earth's  drama  was  unfolded;  and  the  woman 
on  the  sands.  She  moans  and  weeps,  among  the  pictures 
which  the  clouds  of  mortality  offer  and  withdraw,  amid 
that  which  weaves  the  rain.  She  speaks  so  low  that  I 
feel  it  is  to  me  she  speaks.  She  is  one  with  me.  Love — 
it  comes  back  to  me.  Love  is  an  unhappy  man  and  un- 
happy woman. 

I  awake — uttering  the  feeble  cry  of  the  babe  new- 
born. 

All  grows  pale,  and  paler.  The  whiteness  I  foresaw 


DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI        211 

through  the  whirlwinds  and  clamors — it  is  here.  An 
odor  of  ether  recalls  to  me  the  memory  of  an  awful 
memory,  but  shapeless.  A  white  room,  white  walls,  and 
white-robed  women  who  bend  over  me. 

In  a  voice  confused  and  hesitant,  I  say: 

"I've  had  a  dream,  an  absurd  dream." 

My  hand  goes  to  my  eyes  to  drive  it  away. 

"You  struggled  while  you  were  delirious — especially 
when  you  thought  you  were  falling,"  says  a  calm  voice 
to  me,  a  sedate  and  familiar  voice,  which  knows  me 
without  my  knowing  the  voice. 

"Yes,"  I  say. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MORNING 

I  WENT  to  sleep  in  Chaos,  and  then  I  awoke  like  the 
first  man. 

I  am  in  a  bed,  in  a  room.  There  is  no  noise — a  tragedy 
of  calm,  and  horizons  close  and  massive.  The  bed  which 
imprisons  me  is  one  of  a  row  that  I  can  see,  opposite 
another  row.  A  long  floor  goes  in  stripes  as  far  as  the 
distant  door.  There  are  tall  windows,  and  daylight 
wrapped  in  linen.  That  is  all  which  exists.  I  have  al- 
ways been  here,  I  shall  end  here. 

Women,  white  and  stealthy,  have  spoken  to  me.  I 
picked  up  the  new  sound,  and  then  lost  it.  A  man  all 
in  white  has  sat  by  me,  looked  at  me,  and  touched  me. 
His  eyes  shone  strangely,  because  of  his 'glasses. 

I  sleep,  and  then  they  make  me  drink. 

The  long  afternoon  goes  by  in  the  long  corridor.  In 
the  evening  they  make  light;  at  night,  they  put  it  out, 
and  the  lamps — which  are  in  rows,  like  the  beds,  like 
the  windows,  like  everything — disappear.  Just  one  lamp 
remains,  in  the  middle,  on  my  right.  The  peaceful  ghost 
of  dead  things  enjoins  peace.  But  my  eyes  are  open, 
I  awake  more  and  more.  I  take  hold  of  consciousness 
in  the  dark. 

A  stir  is  coming  to  life  around  me  among  the  pros- 
trate forms  aligned  in  the  beds.  This  long  room  is  im- 
mense; it  has  no  end.  The  enshrouded  beds  quiver  and 
cough.  They  cough  on  all  notes  and  in  all  ways,  loose, 
dry,  or  tearing.  There  is  obstructed  breathing,  and 

212 


MORNING  213 

gagged  breathing,  and  polluted,  and  sing-song.  These 
people  who  are  struggling  with  their  huge  speech  do  not 
know  themselves.  I  see  their  solitude  as  I  see  them. 
There  is  nothing  between  the  beds,  nothing. 

Of  a  sudden  I  see  a  globular  mass  with  a  moon-like 
face  oscillating  in  the  night.  With  hands  held  out  and 
groping  for  the  rails  of  the  bedsteads,  it  is  seeking  its 
way.  The  orb  of  its  belly  distends  and  stretches  its, 
shirt  like  a  crinoline,  and  shortens  it.  The  mass  is  car- 
ried by  two  little  and  extremely  slender  legs,  knobbly  at 
the  knees,  and  the  color  of  string.  It  reaches  the  next 
bed,  the  one  which  a  single  ditch  separates  from  mine. 
On  another  bed,  a  shadow  is  swaying  regularly,  like  a 
doll.  The  mass  and  the  shadow  are  a  negro,  whose  big. 
murderous  head  is  hafted  with  a  tiny  neck. 

The  hoarse  concert  of  lungs  and  throats  multiplies 
and  widens.  There  are  some  who  raise  the  arms  of 
marionettes  out  of  the  boxes  of  their  beds.  Others  re- 
main interred  in  the  gray  of  the  bed-clothes.  Now  and 
again,  unsteady  ghosts  pass  through  the  room  and  stoop 
between  the  beds,  and  one  hears  the  noise  of  a  metal 
pail.  At  the  end  of  the  room,  in  the  dark  jumble  of 
those  blind  men  who  look  straight  before  them  and  the 
mutes  who  cough,  I  only  see  the  nurse,  because  of  her 
whiteness.  She  goes  from  one  shadow  to  another,  and 
stoops  over  the  motionless.  She  is  the  vestal  virgin  who, 
so  far  as  she  can,  prevents  them  from  going  out. 

I  turn  my  head  on  the  pillow.  In  the  bed  bracketed 
with  mine  on  the  other  side,  under  the  glow  which  falls 
from  the  only  surviving  lamp,  there  is  a  squat  manikin 
in  a  heavy  knitted  vest,  poultice-color.  From  time  to 
time,  he  sits  up  in  bed,  lifts  his  pointed  head  towards 
the  ceiling,  shakes  himself,  and  grasping  and  knocking 
together  his  spittoon  and  his  physic-glass,  he  coughs  like 
a  lion.  I  am  so  near  to  him  that  I  feel  that  hurricane 


214  LIGHT 

from  his  flesh  pass  over  my  face,  and  the  odor  of  his 

inward  wound. 

****** 

I  have  slept.  I  see  more  clearly  than  yesterday.  I 
no  longer  have  the  veil  that  was  in  front  of  me.  My 
eyes  are  attracted  distinctly  by  everything  which  moves. 
A  powerful  aromatic  odor  assails  me;  I  seek  the  source 
of  it.  Opposite  me,  in  full  daylight,  a  nurse  is  rubbing 
with  a  drug  some  gnarled  and  blackened  hands,  enor- 
mous paws  which  the  earth  of  the  battlefields,  where  they 
were  too  long  implanted,  has  almost  made  moldy.  The 
strong-smelling  liquid  is  becoming  a  layer  of  frothy 
polish. 

The  foulness  of  his  hands  appalls  me.  Gathering  my 
wits  with  an  effort,  I  said  aloud: 

"Why  don't  they  wash  his  hands?" 

My  neighbor  on  the  right,  the  gnome  in  the  mustard 
vest,  seems  to  hear  me,  and  shakes  his  head. 

My  eyes  go  back  to  the  other  side,  and  for  hours  I 
devote  myself  to  watching  in  obstinate  detail,  with  wide- 
open  eyes,  the  water-swollen  man  whom  I  saw  floating 
vaguely  in  the  night  like  a  balloon.  By  night  he  was 
whitish.  By  day  he  is  yellow,  and  his  big  eyes  are 
glutted  with  yellow.  He  gurgles,  makes  noises  of  sub- 
terranean water,  and  mingles  sighs  with  words  and  mor- 
sels of  words.  Fits  of  coughing  tan  his  ochreous  face. 

His  spittoon  is  always  full.  It  is  obvious  that  his 
heart,  where  his  wasted  sulphurate  hand  is  placed,  beats 
too  hard  and  presses  his  spongy  lungs  and  the  tumor  of 
water  which  distends  him.  He  lives  in  the  settled  notion 
of  emptying  his  inexhaustible  body.  He  is  constantly 
examining  his  bed-bottle,  and  I  see  his  face  in  that  yel- 
low reflection.  All  day  I  watched  the  torture  and  punish- 
ment of  that  body.  His  cap  and  tunic,  no  longer  in  the 
least  like  him,  hang  from  a  nail. 


MORNING  215 

Once,  when  he  lay  engulfed  and  choking,  he  pointed 
to  the  negro,  perpetually  oscillating,  and  said: 

"He  wanted  to  kill  himself  because  he  was  homesick." 

The  doctor  has  said  to  me — to  me:  "You're  going  on 
nicely."  I  wanted  to  ask  him  to  talk  to  me  about  my- 
self, but  there  was  no  time  to  ask  himl 

Towards  evening  my  yellow-vested  neighbor,  emerging 
from  his  meditations  and  continuing  to  shake  his  head, 
answers  my  questions  of  the  morning: 

"They  can't  wash  his  hands — it's  embedded." 

A  little  later  that  day  I  became  restless.  I  lifted  my 
arm — it  was  clothed  in  white  linen.  I  hardly  knew  my 
emaciated  hand — that  shadow  stranger!  But  I  recog- 
nized the  identity  disk  on  my  wrist.  Ah,  then!  that 
went  with  me  into  the  depths  of  helll 

For  hours  on  end  my  head  remains  empty  and  sleep- 
less, and  there  are  hosts  of  things  that  I  perceive  badly, 
which  are,  and  then  are  not.  I  have  answered  some 
questions.  When  I  say,  Yes,  it  is  a  sigh  that  I  utter, 
and  only  that.  At  other  times,  I  seem  again  to  be  half- 
swept  away  into  pictures  of  tumored  plains  and  moun- 
tains crowned.  Echoes  of  these  things  vibrate  in  my 
ears,  and  I  wish  that  some  one  would  come  who  could 
explain  the  dreams. 

3|C  5JC  3fC  3fC  JjC  3{C 

Strange  footsteps  are  making  the  floor  creak,  and 
stopping  there.  I  open  my  eyes.  A  woman  is  before 
me.  Ah!  the  sight  of  her  throws  me  into  infinite  con- 
fusion! She  is  the  woman  of  my  vision.  Was  it  true, 
then?  I  look  at  her  with  wide-open  eyes.  She  says 
to  me: 

"It's  me." 

Then  she  bends  low  and  adds  softly: 

"I'm  Marie;  you're  Simon." 

"Ah!  "I  say.    "I  remember." 

I  repeat  the  profound  words  she  has  just  uttered. 


216  LIGHT 

She  speaks  to  me  again  with  the  voice  which  comes  back 
from  far  away.  I  half  rise.  I  look  again.  I  learn 
myself  again,  word  by  word. 

It  is  she,  naturally,  who  tells  me  I  was  wounded  in 
the  chest  and  hip,  and  that  I  lay  three  days  forsaken — 
ragged  wounds,  much  blood  lost,  a  lot  of  fever,  and 
enormous  fatigue. 

"You'll  get  up  soon,"  she  says. 

I  get  up? — I,  the  prostrate  being?  I  am  astonished 
and  afraid. 

Marie  goes  away.  She  increases  my  solitude,  step  by 
step,  and  for  a  long  time  my  eyes  follow  her  going  and 
her  absence. 

In  the  evening  I  hear  a  secret  and  whispered  confer- 
ence near  the  bed  of  the  sick  man  in  the  brown  vest. 
He  is  curled  up,  and  breathes  humbly.  They  say,  very 
low: 

"He's  going  to  die — in  one  hour  from  now,  or  two. 
He's  in  such  a  state  that  to-morrow  morning  he'll  be 
rotten.  He  must  be  taken  away  on  the  moment." 

At  nine  in  the  evening  they  say  that,  and  then  they 
put  the  lights  out  and  go  away.  I  can  see  nothing  more 
but  him.  There  is  the  one  lamp,  close  by,  watching 
over  him.  He  pants  and  trickles.  He  shines  as  though 
it  rained  on  him.  His  beard  has  grown,  grimily.  His 
hair  is  plastered  on  his  sticky  forehead;  his  sweat  is 
gray. 

In  the  morning  the  bed  is  empty,  and  adorned  with 
clean  sheets. 

And  along  with  the  man  annulled,  all  the  things  he 
had  poisoned  have  disappeared. 

"It'll  be  Number  Thirty-six's  turn  next,"  says  the 
orderly. 

I  follow  the  direction  of  his  glance.  I  see  the  con- 
demned man.  He  is  writing  a  letter.  He  speaks,  he 


MORNING  217 

lives.    But  he  is  wounded  in  the  belly.    He  carries  his 
death  like  a  fetus. 

It  is  the  day  when  we  change  our  clothes.  Some  of 
the  invalids  manage  it  by  themselves;  and,  sitting  up 
in  bed,  they  perform  signaling  operations  with  arms  and 
white  linen.  Others  are  helped  by  the  nurse.  On  their 
bare  flesh  I  catch  sight  of  scars  and  cavities,  and  parts 
stitched  and  patched,  of  a  different  shade.  There  is 
even  a  case  of  amputation  (and  bronchitis)  who  reveals 
a  new  and  rosy  stump,  like  a  new-born  infant.  The 
negro  does  not  move  while  they  strip  his  thin,  insect- 
like  trunk;  and  then,  bleached  once  more,  he  begins 
again  to  rock  his  head,  looking  boundlessly  for  the  sun 
and  for  Africa.  They  exhume  the  paralyzed  man  from 
his  sheets  and  change  his  clothes  opposite  me.  At  first 
he  lies  motionless  in  his  clean  shirt,  in  a  lump.  Then 
he  makes  a  guttural  noise  which  brings  the  nurse  up. 
In  a  cracked  voice,  as  of  a  machine  that  speaks,  he  asks 
her  to  move  his  feet,  which  are  caught  in  the  sheet. 
Then  he  lies  staring,  arranged  in  rigid  orderliness  within 
the  boards  of  his  carcass. 

Marie  has  come  back  and  is  sitting  on  a  chair.  We 
both  spell  out  the  past,  which  she  brings  me  abundantly. 
My  brain  is  working  incalculably. 

"We're  quite  near  home,  you  know,"  Marie  says. 

Her  words  extricate  our  home,  our  quarter;  they  have 
endless  echoes. 

That  day  I  raised  myself  on  the  bed  and  looked  out 
of  the  window  for  the  first  time,  although  it  had  always 
been  there,  within  reach  of  my  eyes.  And  I  saw  the 
sky  for  the  first  time,  and  a  gray  yard  as  well,  where  it 
was  visibly  cold,  and  a  gray  day,  an  ordinary  day,  like 
life,  like  everything. 

Quickly  the  days  wiped  each  other  out.  Gradually  I 
got  up,  in  the  middle  of  the  men  who  had  relapsed  into 


218  LIGHT 

childhood,  and  were  awkwardly  beginning  again,  or 
plaintively  complaining  in  their  beds.  I  have  strolled 
in  the  wards,  and  then  along  a  path.  It  is  a  matter  of 
formalities  now — convalescence,  and  in  a  month's  time 
the  Medical  Board. 

At  last  Marie  came  one  morning  for  me,  to  go  home, 
for  that  interval. 

She  found  me  on  the  seat  in  the  yard  of  the  hospital, 
which  used  to  be  a  school,  under  the  cloth — which  was 
the  only  spot  where  a  ray  of  sunshine  could  get  in.  I 
was  meditating  in  the  middle  of  an  assembly  of  old 
cripples  and  men  with  heads  or  arms  bandaged,  with 
ragged  and  incongruous  equipment,  with  sick  clothes. 
I  detached  myself  from  the  miracle-yard  and  followed 
Marie,  after  thanking  the  nurse  and  saying  good-by  to 
her. 

The  corporal  of  the  hospital  orderlies  is  the  vicar  of 
our  church — he  who  said  and  who  spread  it  about  that 
he  was  going  to  share  the  soldiers'  sufferings,  like  all 
the  priests.  Marie  says  to  me,  "Aren't  you  going  to  see 
him?" 

"No,"  I  say. 

We  set  out  for  life  by  a  shady  path,  and  then  the  high 
road  came.  We  walked  slowly.  Marie  carried  the 
bundle.  The  horizons  were  even,  the  earth  was  flat  and 
made  no  noise,  and  the  dome  of  the  sky  no  longer  banged 
like  a  big  clock.  The  fields  were  empty,  right  to  the 
end,  because  of  the  war;  but  the  lines  of  the  road  were 
scriptural,  turning  not  aside  to  the  right  hand  or  to 
the  left.  And  I,  cleansed,  simplified,  lucid — though  still 
astonished  at  the  silence  and  affected  by  the  peaceful- 
ness — I  saw  it  all  distinctly,  without  a  veil,  without  any- 
thing. It  seemed  to  me  that  I  bore  within  me  a  great 
new  reason,  unused. 

We  were  not  far  away.  Soon  we  uncovered  the  past, 
step  by  step.  As  fast  as  we  drew  near,  smaller  and 


MORNING  219, 

smaller  details  introduced  themselves  and  told  us  their 
names — that  tree  with  the  stones  round  it,  those  for- 
saken and  declining  sheds.  I  even  found  recollections 
shut  up  in  the  little  retreats  of  the  kilometer-stones. 

But  Marie  was  looking  at  me  with  an  indefinable  ex- 
pression. 

"You're  icy  cold,"  she  said  to  me  suddenly,  shivering. 

"No,"  I  said,  "no." 

We  stopped  at  an  inn  to  rest  and  eat,  and  it  was  al- 
ready evening  when  we  reached  the  streets. 

Marie  pointed  out  a  man  who  was  crossing  over, 
yonder. 

"Monsieur  Rampaille  is  rich  now,  because  of  the 
War." 

Then  it  was  a  woman,  dressed  in  fluttering  white  and 
blue,  disappearing  round  the  corner  of  a  house: 

"That's  Antonia  Veron.  She's  been  in  the  Red  Cross 
service.  She's  got  a  decoration  because  of  the  War." 

"Ah!"  I  said,  "everything's  changed." 

Now  we  are  in  sight  of  the  house.  The  distance  be- 
tween the  corner  of  the  street  and  the  house  seems  to  me 
smaller  than  it  should  be.  The  court  comes  to  an  end 
suddenly;  its  shape  looks  shorter  than  it  is  in  reality. 
In  the  same  way,  all  the  memories  of  my  former  life 
appear  dwindled  to  me. 

The  house,  the  rooms.  I  have  climbed  the  stairs 
and  come  down  again,  watched  by  Marie.  I  have  recog- 
nized everything;  some  things  even  which  I  did  not  see. 
There  is  no  one  else  but  us  two  in  the  falling  night,  as 
though  people  had  agreed  not  to  show  themselves  yet  to 
this  man  who  comes  back. 

"There — now  we're  at  home,"  says  Marie,  at  last. 

We  sit  down,  facing  each  other. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"We're  going  to  live." 

"We're  going  to  live." 


220  LIGHT 

I  ponder.  She  looks  at  me  stealthily,  with  that  mys- 
terious expression  of  anguish  which  get.  over  me.  I 
notice  the  precautions  she  takes  in  watching  me.  And 
once  it  seemed  to  me  that  her  eyes  were  red  with  cry- 
ing. I — I  think  of  the  hospital  life  I  am  leaving,  of  the 

gray  street,  and  the  simplicity  of  things. 

****** 

A  day  has  slipped  away  already.  In  one  day  all  the 
time  gone  by  has  reestablished  itself.  I  am  become  again 
what  I  was.  Except  that  I  am  not  so  strong  or  so 
calm  as  before,  it  is  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

But  truth  is  more  simple  than  before. 

I  inquire  of  Marie  after  this  one  or  the  other  and 
question  her. 

Marie  says  to  me: 

"You're  always  saying  Why? — like  a  child." 

All  the  same  I  do  not  talk  much.  Marie  is  assiduous; 
obviously  she  is  afraid  of  my  silence.  Once,  when  I 
was  sitting  opposite  her  and  had  said  nothing  for  a 
long  time,  she  suddenly  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
in  her  turn  she  asked  me,  through  her  sobs: 

"Why  are  you  like  that?" 

I  hesitate. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  I  say  at  last,  by  way  of  answer, 
*'that  I  am  seeing  things  as  they  are." 

"My  poor  boy!"  Marie  says,  and  she  goes  on  crying. 

I  am  touched  by  this  obscure  trouble.  True,  every- 
thing is  obvious  around  me,  but  as  it  were  laid  bare. 
I  have  lost  the  secret  which  complicated  life.  I  no 
longer  have  the  illusion  which  distorts  and  conceals, 
that  fervor,  that  sort  of  blind  and  unreasoning  bravery 
which  tosses  you  from  one  hour  to  the  next,  and  from 
day  to  day. 

And  yet  I  am  just  taking  up  life  again  where  I  left 
it.  I  am  upright,  I  am  getting  stronger  and  stronger  I 
am  not  ending,  but  beginning. 


MORNING  221 

I  slept  profoundly,  all  alone  in  our  bed. 

Next  morning,  I  saw  Crillon,  planted  in  the  living- 
room  downstairs.  He  held  out  his  arms,  and  shouted. 
After  expressing  good  wishes,  he  informs  me,  all  in  a 
breath: 

"You  don't  know  what's  happened  in  the  Town  Coun- 
cil? Down  yonder,  towards  the  place  they  call  Little 
January,  y'know,  there's  a  steep  hill  that  gets  wider 
as  it  goes  down  an'  there's  a  gaslamp  and  a  watchman's 
box  where  all  the  cyclists  that  want  to  smash  their  faces, 
and  a  few  days  ago  now  a  navvy  comes  and  sticks  him- 
self in  there  and  no  one  never  knew  his  name,  an'  he 
got  a  cyclist  on  his  head  an'  he's  gone  dead.  And 
against  that  gaslamp  broken  up  by  blows  from  cyclists 
they  proposed  to  put  a  notice-board,  although  all  rec- 
ommendations would  be  superfluent.  You  catch  on  that 
it's  nothing  less  than  a  maneuver  to  get  the  mayor's 
shirt  out?" 

Crillon's  words  vanish.  As  fast  as  he  utters  them  I 
detach  myself  from  all  this  poor  old  stuff.  I  cannot 
reply  to  him,  when  he  has  ceased,  and  Marie  and  he 
are  looking  at  me.  I  say,  "Ahl" 

He  coughs,  to  keep  me  in  countenance.  Shortly,  he 
takes  himself  off. 

Others  come,  to  talk  of  their  affairs  and  the  course  of 
events  in  the  district.  There  is  a  regular  buzz.  So-and- 
so  has  been  killed,  but  So-and-so  is  made  an  officer. 
So-and-so  has  got  a  clerking  job.  Here  in  the  town,  So- 
and-so  has  got  rich.  How's  the  War  going  on? 

They  surround  me,  with  questioning  faces.  And  yet 
it  is  I,  still  more  than  they,  who  am  one  immense  ques- 
tion. 

****** 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

EYES  THAT  SEE 

Two  days  have  passed.  I  get  up,  dress  myself,  and 
open  my  shutters.  It  is  Sunday,  as  you  can  see  in  the 
street. 

I  put  on  my  clothes  of  former  days.  I  catch  myself 
paying  spruce  attention  to  my  toilet,  since  it  is  Sunday, 
by  reason  of  the  compulsion  one  feels  to  do  the  same 
things  again. 

And  now  I  see  how  much  my  face  has  hollowed,  as 
I  compare  it  with  the  one  I  had  left  behind  in  the  fa- 
miliar mirror. 

I  go  out,  and  meet  several  people.  Madame  Piot  asks 
me  how  many  of  the  enemy  I  have  killed.  I  reply  that 
I  killed  one.  Her  tittle-tattle  accosts  another  subject. 
I  feel  the  enormous  difference  there  was  between  what 
she  asked  me  and  what  I  answered. 

The  streets  are  clad  in  the  mourning  of  closed  shops. 
It  is  still  the  same  empty  and  hermetically  sealed  face 
of  the  day  of  holiday.  My  eyes  notice,  near  the  sunken 
post,  the  old  jam-pot,  which  has  not  moved. 

I  climb  on  to  Chestnut  Hill.  No  one  is  there,  be- 
cause it  is  Sunday.  In  that  white  winding-sheet,  that 
widespread  pallor  of  Sunday,  all  my  former  lot  builds 
itself  again,  house  by  house. 

I  look  outwards  from  the  top  of  the  hill.  All  is  the 
same  in  the  lines  and  the  tones.  The  spectacle  of  yes- 
terday and  that  of  to-day  are  as  identical  as  two  pic- 
ture postcards.  I  see  my  house — the  roof,  and  three- 

222 


EYES  THAT  SEE  223 

quarters  of  the  front.  I  feel  a  pleasant  thrill.  I  feel 
that  I  love  this  corner  of  the  earth,  but  especially  my 
house. 

What,  is  everything  the  same?  Is  there  nothing  new, 
nothing?  Is  the  only  changed  thing  the  man  that  I  am, 
walking  too  slowly  in  clothes  too  big,  the  man  grown  old 
and  leaning  on  a  stick? 

The  landscape  is  barren  in  the  inextricable  simplicity 
of  the  daylight.  I  do  not  know  why  I  was  expecting 
revelations.  In  vain  my  gaze  wanders  everywhere,  to 
infinity. 

But  a  darkening  of  storm  fills  and  agitates  the  sky, 
and  suddenly  clothes  the  morning  with  a  look  of  even- 
ing. The  crowd  which  I  see  yonder  along  the  avenue, 
under  cover  of  the  great  twilight  which  goes  by  with  its 
invisible  harmony,  profoundly  draws  my  attention. 

All  those  shadows  which  are  shelling  themselves  out 
along  the  road  are  very  tiny,  they  are  separated  from 
one  another,  they  are  of  the  same  stature.  From  a  dis- 
tance one  sees  how  much  one  man  resembles  another. 
And  it  is  true  that  a  man  is  like  a  man.  The  one  is  not 
of  a  different  species  from  the  other.  It  is  a  certainty 
which  I  am  bringing  forward — the  only  one;  and  the 
truth  is  simple,  for  what  I  believe  I  see  with  my  eyes. 

The  equality  of  all  these  human  spots  that  appear  in 
the  somber  gleams  of  storm,  why — it  is  a  revelation! 
It  is  a  beginning  of  distinct  order  in  Chaos.  How  comes 
it  that  I  have  never  seen  what  is  so  visible,  how  comes 
it  that  I  never  perceived  that  obvious  thing — that  a 
man  and  another  man  are  the  same  thing,  everywhere 
and  always?  I  rejoice  that  I  have  seen  it  as  if  my  des- 
tiny were  to  shed  a  little  light  on  us  and  on  our  road. 
****** 

The  bells  are  summoning  our  eyes  to  the  church.  It 
is  surrounded  by  scaffolding,  and  a  long  swarm  of  peo- 
ple are  gliding  towards  it,  grouping  round  it,  going  in. 


224  LIGHT 

The  earth  and  the  sky — but  I  do  not  see  God.  I  see 
everywhere,  everywhere,  God's  absence.  My  gaze  goes 
through  space  and  returns,  forsaken.  And  I  have  never 
seen  Him,  and  He  is  nowhere,  nowhere,  nowhere. 

No  one  ever  saw  Him.  I  know — I  always  knew,  for 
that  matter! — that  there  is  no  proof  of  God's  exist- 
ence, and  that  you  must  find,  first  of  all,  believe  in  it 
if  you  want  to  prove  it.  Where  does  He  show  Himself? 
What  does  He  save?  What  tortures  of  the  heart,  what 
disasters  does  He  turn  aside  from  all  and  each  in  the 
rain  of  hearts?  Where  have  we  known  or  handled  or 
embraced  anything  but  His  name?  God's  absence  sur- 
rounds infinitely  and  even  actually  each  kneeling  sup- 
pliant, athirst  for  some  humble  personal  miracle,  and 
each  seeker  who  bends  over  his  papers  as  he  watches 
for  proofs  like  a  creator;  it  surrounds  the  spiteful  an- 
tagonism of  all  religions,  armed  against  each  other,  enor- 
mous and  bloody.  God's  absence  rises  like  the  sky 
over  the  agonizing  conflicts  between  good  and  evil,  over 
the  trembling  needfulness  of  the  upright,  over  the  im' 
mensity — still  haunting  me — of  the  cemeteries  of  agony, 
the  charnel  heaps  of  innocent  soldiers,  the  heavy  crie? 
of  the  shipwrecked.  Absence!  Absence!  In  the  hun- 
dred thousand  years  that  life  has  tried  to  delay  death 
there  has  been  nothing  on  earth  more  fruitless  than 
man's  cries  to  divinity,  nothing  which  gives  so  perfect 
an  idea  of  silence. 

How  does  it  come  about  that  I  have  lasted  till  now 
without  understanding  that  I  did  not  see  God?  I  be- 
lieved because  they  had  told  me  to  believe.  It  seems 
to  me  that  I  am  able  to  believe  something  no  longer 
because  they  command  me  to,  and  I  feel  myself  s^t  free. 

I  lean  on  the  stones  of  the  low  wall,  at  the  spot  where 
I  leaned  of  old,  in  the  time  when  I  thought  I  wa?  some 
one  and  knew  something. 

My  looks  fall  on  the  families  and  the  single  figures 


EYES  THAT  SEE  225 

which  are  hurrying  towards  the  black  hole  of  the  church 
porch,  towards  the  gloom  of  the  nave,  where  one  is  en- 
laced in  incense,  where  wheels  of  light  and  angels  of 
color  hover  under  the  vaults  which  contain  a  little  of  the 
great  emptiness  of  the  heavens. 

I  seem  to  stoop  nearer  to  those  people,  and  I  get 
glimpses  of  certain  profundities  among  the  fleeting  pic- 
tures which  my  sight  lends  me.  I  seem  to  have  stopped, 
at  random,  in  front  of  the  richness  of  a  single  being.  I 
think  of  the  "humble,  quiet  lives,"  and  it  appears  to  me 
within  a  few  words,  and  that  in  what  they  call  a  "quiet, 
lowly  life,"  there  are  immense  expectations  and  waitings 
and  weariness. 

I  understand  why  they  want  to  believe  in  God,  and 
consequently  why  they  do  believe  in  Him,  since  faith 
comes  at  will. 

I  remember,  while  I  lean  on  this  wall  and  listen,  that 
one  day  in  the  past  not  far  from  here,  a  lowly  woman 
raised  her  voice  and  said,  "That  woman  does  not  believe 
in  God!  It's  because  she  has  no  children,  or  else  be- 
cause they've  never  been  ill." 

And  I  remember,  too,  without  being  able  to  picture 
them  to  myself,  all  the  voices  I  have  heard  saying,  "It 
would  be  too  unjust,  if  there  were  no  God!" 

There  is  no  other  proof  of  God's  existence  than  the 
need  we  have  of  Him.  God  is  not  God — He  is  the  name 
of  all  that  we  lack.  He  is  our  dream,  carried  to  the 
sky.  God  is  a  prayer,  He  is  not  some  one. 

They  put  all  His  kind  actions  into  the  eternal  future, 
they  hide  them  in  the  unknown.  Their  agonizing  dues 
they  drown  in  distances  which  outdistance  them;  they 
cancel  His  contradictions  in  inaccessible  uncertainty.  No 
matter;  they  believe  in  the  idol  made  of  a  word. 

And  I?  I  have  awaked  out  of  religion,  since  it  was 
a  dream.  It  had  to  be  that  one  morning  my  eyes  would 
end  by  opening  and  seeing  nothing  more  of  it. 


226  LIGHT 

I  do  not  see  God,  but  I  see  the  church  and  I  see  the 
priests.  Another  ceremony  is  unfolding  just  now,  in 
another  direction — up  at  the  castle,  a  Mass  of  St.  Hubert. 
Leaning  on  my  elbows  the  spectacle  absorbs  me. 

These  ministers  of  the  cult,  blessing  this  pack  of 
hounds,  these  guns  and  hunting  knives,  officiating  in 
lace  and  pomp  side  by  side  with  these  wealthy  people 
got  up  as  warlike  sportsmen,  women  and  men  alike,  on 
the  great  steps  of  a  castle  and  facing  a  crowd  kept  aloof 
by  ropes, — this  spectacle  defines,  more  glaringly  than 
any  words  whatever  can,  the  distance  which  separates 
the  churches  of  to-day  from  Christ's  teaching,  and  points 
to  all  the  gilded  putridity  which  has  accumulated  on 
those  pure  defaced  beginnings.  And  what  is  here  is 
everywhere;  what  is  little  is  great. 

The  parsons,  the  powerful — all  always  joined  together. 
Ah,  certainty  is  rising  to  the  heart  of  my  conscience. 
Religions  destroy  themselves  spiritually  because  they  are 
many.  They  destroy  whatever  leans  upon  their  fables. 
But  their  directors,  they  who  are  the  strength  of  the 
idol,  impose  it.  They  decree  authority;  they  hide  the 
light.  They  are  men,  defending  their  interests  as  men; 
they  are  rulers  defending  their  sway. 

It  has  to  be!  You  shall  not  know!  A  terrible  mem- 
ory shudders  through  me;  and  I  catch  a  confused  glimpse 
of  people  who,  for  the  needs  of  their  common  cause, 
uphold,  with  their  promises  and  thunder,  the  mad  unhap- 

piness  which  lies  heavy  on  the  multitudes. 

****** 

Footsteps  are  climbing  towards  me.  Marie  appears, 
dressed  in  gray.  She  comes  to  look  for  me.  In  the 
distance  I  saw  that  her  cheeks  were  brightened  and  re- 
juvenated by  the  wind.  Close  by  I  see  that  her  eyelids 
are  worn,  like  silk.  She  finds  me  sunk  in  reflection. 
She  looks  at  me,  like  a  frail  and  frightened  mother; 


EYES  THAT  SEE  227 

and  this  solicitude  which  she  brings  me  is  enough  by  it- 
self to  calm  and  comfort  me. 

I  point  out  to  her  the  dressed-up  commotion  below 
us,  and  make  some  bitter  remark  on  the  folly  of  these 
people  who  vainly  gather  in  the  church,  and  go  to  pray 
there,  to  talk  all  alone.  Some  of  them  believe;  and  the 
rest  say  to  them,  "I  do  the  same  as  you." 

Marie  does  not  argue  the  basis  of  religion.  "Ah," 
she  says,  "I've  never  thought  clearly  about  it,  never. 
They've  always  spoken  of  God  to  me,  and  I've  always 
believed  in  Him.  But — I  don't  know.  I  only  know 
one  thing,"  she  adds,  her  blue  eyes  looking  at  me,  "and 
that  is  that  there  must  be  delusion.  The  people  must 
have  religion,  so  as  to  put  up  with  the  hardships  of  life, 
the  sacrifices " 

She  goes  on  again  at  once,  more  emphatically,  "There 
must  be  religion  for  the  unhappy,  so  that  they  won't 
give  way.  It  may  be  foolishness,  but  if  you  take  that 
away  from  them,  what  have  they  left?" 

The  gentle  woman — the  normal  woman  of  settled! 
habits — whom  I  had  left  here  repeats,  "There  must  be 
illusion."  She  sticks  to  this  idea,  she  insists,  she  is  tak- 
ing the  side  of  the  unhappy.  Perhaps  she  talks  like 
that  for  her  own  sake,  and  perhaps  only  because  she  is 
compassionate  for  me. 

I  said  in  vain,  "No — there  must  never  be  delusion, 
never  fallacies.  There  should  be  no  more  lies.  We  shall 
not  know  then  where  we're  going." 

She  persists  and  makes  signs  of  dissent. 

I  say  no  more,  tired.  But  I  do  not  lower  my  gaze 
before  the  all-powerful  surroundings  of  circumstance. 
My  eyes  are  pitiless,  and  cannot  help  descrying  the  false 
God  and  the  false  priests  everywhere. 

We  go  down  the  footpath  and  return  in  silence. 
But  it  seems  to  me  that  the  rule  of  evil  is  hidden  in  easy 
security  among  the  illusions  which  they  heap  up  over 


228  LIGHT 

us.  I  am  nothing;  I  am  no  more  than  I  was  before, 
but  I  am  applying  my  hunger  for  the  truth.  I  tell  my- 
self again  that  there  is  no  supernatural  power,  that  noth- 
ing has  fallen  from  the  sky;  that  everything  is  within 
us  and  in  our  hands.  And  in  the  inspiration  of  that  faith 
my  eyes  embrace  the  magnificence  of  the  empty  sky, 
the  abounding  desert  of  the  earth,  the  Paradise  of  the 
Possible. 

We  pass  along  the  base  of  the  church.  Marie  says  to 
me — as  if  nothing  had  just  been  said,  "Look  how  the 
poor  church  was  damaged  by  a  bomb  from  an  aeroplane 
— all  one  side  of  the  steeple  gone.  The  good  old  vicar 
was  quite  ill  about  it.  As  soon  as  he  got  up  he  did 
nothing  else  but  try  to  raise  money  to  have  his  dear 
steeple  built  up  again;  and  he  got  it." 

People  are  revolving  round  the  building  and  measuring 
its  yawning  mutilation  with  their  eyes.  My  thoughts 
turn  to  all  these  passers-by  and  to  all  those  who  will 
pass  by,  whom  I  shall  not  see,  and  to  other  wounded 
steeples.  The  most  beautiful  of  all  voices  echoes  within 
me,  and  I  would  fain  make  use  of  it  for  this  entreaty, 
"Build  not  the  churches  again  1  You  who  will  come 
after  us,  you  who,  in  the  sharp  distinctness  of  the  ended 
deluge  will  perhaps  be  able  to  see  the  order  of  things 
more  clearly,  don't  build  the  churches  again!  They  did 
not  contain  what  we  used  to  believe,  and  for  centuries 
they  have  only  been  the  prisons  of  the  saviours,  and 
monumental  lies.  If  you  are  still  of  the  faith  have  your 
temples  within  yourselves.  But  if  you  again  bring 
stones  to  build  up  a  narrow  and  evil  tradition,  that  is 
the  end  of  all.  In  the  name  of  justice,  in  the  name  of 
light,  in  the  name  of  pity,  do  not  build  the  churches 
again  1" 

But  I  did  not  say  anything.  I  bow  my  head  and  walk 
more  heavily. 

I  see  Madame  Marcassin  coming  out  of  the  church 


EYES  THAT  SEE  229 

with  blinking  eyes,  weary-looking,  a  widow  indeed.  I 
bow  and  approach  her  and  talk  to  her  a  little,  humbly, 
about  her  husband,  since  I  was  under  his  orders  and 
saw  him  die.  She  listens  to  me  in  dejected  inattention. 
She  is  elsewhere.  She  says  to  me  at  last,  "I  had  a  me- 
morial service  since  it's  usual."  Then  she  maintains  a 
silence  which  means  "There's  nothing  to  be  said,  just  as 
there's  nothing  to  be  done."  In  face  of  that  emptiness 
I  understand  the  crime  that  Marcassin  committed  in 
letting  himself  be  killed  for  nothing  but  the  glory  of 

dying. 

****** 


CHAPTER  XIX 

GHOSTS 

WE  have  gone  out  together  and  aimlessly;  we  walk 
straight  forward. 

It  is  an  autumnal  day — gray  lace  of  clouds  and  wind. 
Some  dried  leaves  lie  on  the  ground  and  others  go 
whirling.  We  are  in  August,  but  it  is  an  autumn  day  all 
the  same.  Days  do  not  allow  themselves  to  be  set  in 
strict  order,  like  men. 

Our  steps  take  us  in  the  direction  of  the  waterfall 
and  the  mill.  We  have  seldom  been  there  again  since 
our  engagement  days.  Marie  is  covered  in  a  big  gray 
cloak;  her  hat  is  black  silk  with  a  little  square  of  color 
embroidered  in  front.  She  looks  tired,  and  her  eyes 
are  red.  WThen  she  walks  in  front  of  me  I  see  the  twisted 
mass  of  her  beautiful  fair  hair. 

Instinctively  we  both  looked  for  the  inscriptions  we 
cut,  once  upon  a  time,  on  trees  and  on  stones,  in  foolish 
delight.  We  sought  them  like  scattered  treasure,  on  the 
strange  cheeks  of  the  old  willows,  near  the  tendrils  of 
the  fall,  on  the  birches  that  stand  like  candles  in  front 
of  the  violet  thicket,  and  on  the  old  fir  which  so  often 
sheltered  us  with  its  dark  wings.  Many  inscriptions 
have  disappeared.  Some  are  worn  away  because  things 
do;  some  are  covered  by  a  host  of  other  inscriptions  or 
they  are  distorted  and  ugly.  Nearly  all  have  passed  on 
as  if  they  had  been  passers-by. 

Marie  is  tired.  She  often  sits  down,  with  her  big  cloak 
and  her  sensible  air;  and  as  she  sits  she  seems  like  a 
statue  of  nature,  of  space,  and  the  wind. 

230 


GHOSTS  231 

We  do  not  speak.  We  have  gone  down  along  fhe  side 
of  the  river — slowly,  as  if  we  were  climbing — towards 
the  stone  seat  of  the  wall.  The  distances  have  altered. 
This  seat,  for  instance,  we  meet  it  sooner  than  we  thought 
we  should,  like  some  one  in  the  dark;  but  it  is  the  seat 
all  right.  The  rose-tree  which  grew  above  it  has  with- 
ered away  and  become  a  crown  of  thorns. 

There  are  dead  leaves  on  the  stone  slab.  They  come 
from  the  chestnuts  yonder.  They  fell  on  the  ground 
and  yet  they  have  flown  away  as  far  as  the  seat. 

On  this  seat — where  she  came  to  me  for  the  first  time, 
which  was  once  so  important  to  us  that  it  seemed  as  if 
the  background  of  things  all  about  us  had  been  created 
by  us — we  sit  down  to-day,  after  we  have  vainly  sought 
in  nature  the  traces  of  our  transit. 

The  landscape  is  peaceful,  simple,  empty;  it  fills  us 
with  a  great  quivering.  Marie  is  so  sad  and  so  simple 
that  you  can  see  her  thought. 

I  have  leaned  forward,  my  elbows  on  my  knees.  I 
have  contemplated  the  gravel  at  my  feet;  and  sud- 
denly I  start,  for  I  understand  that  my  eyes  were  look- 
ing for  the  marks  of  our  footsteps,  in  spite  of  the  stone, 
in  spite  of  the  sand. 

After  the  solemnity  of  a  long  silence,  Marie's  face 
takes  on  a  look  of  defeat,  and  suddenly  she  begins  to 
cry.  The  tears  which  fill  her — for  one  always  weeps  in 
full,  drop  on  to  her  knees.  And  through  her  sobs  there- 
fall  from  her  wet  lips  words  almost  shapeless,  but  des- 
perate and  fierce,  as  a  burst  of  forced  laughter. 

"It's  all  over!"  she  cries. 

****** 

I  have  put  my  arm  round  her  waist,  and  I  am  shaken 
by  the  sorrow  which  agitates  her  chest  and  throat,  and 
sometimes  shakes  her  rudely,  the  sorrow  which  does  not 
belong  to  me,  which  belongs  to  no  one,  and  is  like  a 
divinity. 


232  LIGHT 

She  becomes  composed.  I  take  her  hand.  In  a  weak 
voice  she  calls  some  memories  up — this  and  that — and 

"one  morning "    She  applies  herself  to  it  and  counts 

them.  I  speak,  too,  gently.  We  question  each  other. 
"Do  you  remember?" — "Oh,  yes."  And  when  some  more 
precise  and  intimate  detail  prompts  the  question  we  only 
reply,  "A  little."  Our  separation  and  the  great  happen- 
ings past  which  the  world  has  whirled  have  made  the 
past  recoil  and  shaped  a  deep  ditch.  Nothing  has 
changed;  but  when  we  look  we  see. 

Once,  after  we  had  recalled  to  each  other  an  en- 
chanted summer  evening,  I  said,  "We  loved  each  other," 
and  she  answered,  "I  remember." 

I  call  her  by  her  name,  in  a  low  voice,  so  as  to  draw 
her  out  of  the  dumbness  into  which  she  is  falling. 

She  listens  to  me,  and  then  says,  placidly,  despair- 
ingly, "  'Marie,' — you  used  to  say  it  like  that.  I  can't 
realize  that  I  had  the  same  name." 

A  few  moments  later,  as  we  talked  of  something  else, 
she  said  to  me  at  last,  "Ah,  that  day  we  had  dreams  of 
travel,  about  our  plans — you  were  there,  sitting  by  my 
side." 

In  those  former  times  we  lived.  Now  we  hardly  live 
any  more,  since  we  have  lived.  They  who  we  were 
are  dead,  for  we  are  here.  Her  glances  come  to  me,  but 
they  do  not  join  again  the  two  surviving  voids  that  we 
are;  her  look  does  not  wipe  out  our  widowhood,  nor 
change  anything.  And  I,  I  am  too  imbued  with  clear- 
sighted simplicity  and  truth  to  answer  "no"  when  it  is 
"yes."  In  this  moment  by  my  side  Marie  is  like  me. 

The  immense  mourning  of  human  hearts  appears  to 
us.  We  dare  not  name  it  yet;  but  we  dare  not  let  it  not 
appear  in  all  that  we  say. 

****** 

Then  we  see  a  woman,  climbing  the  footpath  and 
coming  nearer  to  us.  It  is  Marthe,  grown  up,  full- 


GHOSTS  233 

blown.  She  says  a  few  words  to  us  and  then  goes  away, 
smiling.  She  smiles,  she  who  plays  a  part  in  our  drama. 
The  likeness  which  formerly  haunted  me  now  haunts 
Marie,  too — both  of  us,  side  by  side,  and  without  saying 
it,  harbored  the  same  thought,  to  see  that  child  growing 
up  and  showing  what  Marie  was. 

Marie  confesses  all,  all  at  once,  "I  was  only  my 
youth  and  my  beauty,  like  all  women.  And  there  go  my 
youth  and  beauty — Marthe!  Then,  I ?"  In  an- 
guish she  goes  on,  "I'm  not  old  yet,  since  I'm  only  thirty- 
five,  but  I've  aged  very  quickly;  I've  some  white  hairs 
that  you  can  see,  close  to;  I'm  wrinkled  and  my  eyes 
have  sunk.  I'm  here,  in  life,  to  live,  to  occupy  my  time; 
but  I'm  nothing  more  than  I  am!  Of  course,  I'm  still 
alive,  but  the  future  comes  to  an  end  before  life  does.  Ah, 
it's  really  only  youth  that  has  a  place  in  life.  All  young 
faces  are  alike  and  go  from  one  to  the  other  without 
ever  being  deceived.  They  wipe  out  and  destroy  all 
the  rest,  and  they  make  the  others  see  themselves  as  they 
are,  so  that  they  become  useless." 

She  is  right!  When  the  young  woman  stands  up  she 
takes,  in  fact,  the  other's  place  in  the  ideal  and  in  the 
human  heart,  and  makes  of  the  other  a  returning  ghost. 
It  is  true.  I  knew  it.  Ah,  I  did  not  know  it  was  so 
true!  It  is  too  obvious.  I  cannot  deny  it.  Again  a 
cry  of  assent  rises  to  my  lips  and  prevents  me  from 
saying,  "No." 

I  cannot  turn  away  from  Marthe's  advent,  nor  as  I 
look  at  her,  from  recognizing  Marie.  I  know  she  has  had 
several  little  love-affairs.  Just  now  she  is  alone.  She 
is  alone,  but  she  will  soon  be  leaning — yes,  phantom  or 
reality,  man  is  not  far  from  her.  It  is  dazzling.  Most 
certainly,  I  no  longer  think  as  I  used  to  do  that  it  is  a 
sort  of  duty  to  satisfy  the  selfish  promptings  one  has, 
and  I  have  now  got  an  inward  veneration  for  right-doing; 
but  all  the  same,  if  that  being  came  to  me,  I  know  well 


234  LIGHT 

that  I  should  become,  before  all,  and  in  spite  of  all,  an 
immense  cry  of  delight. 

Marie  falls  back  upon  her  idea,  obdurately,  and  says, 
"A  woman  only  lives  by  love  and  for  love.  When  she's 
no  longer  good  for  that  she's  no  longer  anything." 

She  repeats,  "You  see — I'm  nothing  any  more." 

Ah,  she  is  at  the  bottom  of  her  abyss!  She  is  at  the 
extremity  of  a  woman's  mourning!  She  is  not  thinking 
only  of  me.  Her  thought  is  higher  and  vaster.  She  is 
thinking  of  all  the  woman  she  is,  of  all  that  love  is,  of 
all  possible  things  when  she  says,  "I'm  no  longer  any- 
thing." And  7 — I  am  only  he  who  is  present  with  her 
just  now,  and  no  help  whatever  is  left  her  to  look  for 
from  any  one. 

I  should  like  to  pacify  and  console  this  woman  who 
is  gentleness  and  simplicity  and  who  is  sinking  there 
while  she  lightly  touches  me  with  her  presence — but 
exactly  because  she  is  there  I  cannot  lie  to  her,  I  can  do 
nothing  against  her  grief,  her  perfect,  infallible  grief. 

"Ah!"  she  cries,  "if  we  came  to  life  again!" 

But  she,  too,  has  tried  to  cling  to  illusion.  I  see  by 
the  track  of  her  tears,  and  because  I  am  looking  at  her 
— that  she  has  powdered  her  face  to-day  and  put  rouge 
on  her  lips,  perhaps  even  on  her  cheeks,  as  she  did  in 
bygone  days,  laughing,  to  set  herself  off,  in  spite  of  me. 
This  woman  who  tries  to  keep  a  good  likeness  of  herself 
through  passing  time,  to  be  fixed  upon  herself,  who 
paints  herself,  she  is,  to  that  extent  like  what  Rem- 
brandt the  profound  and  Titian  the  bold  and  exquisite 
did — make  enduring,  and  save!  But  this  time,  a  few 
tears  have  washed  away  the  fragile,  mortal  effort. 

She  tries  also  to  delude  herself  with  words,  and  to 
discover  something  in  them  which  would  transform  her. 
She  asserts,  as  she  did  the  other  morning,  "There  must 
be  illusion.  No,  we  must  not  see  things  as  they  are." 
But  I  see  clearly  that  such  words  do  not  exist. 


GHOSTS  235 

Once,  when  she  was  looking  at  me  distressfully,  she 
murmured,  "You — you've  no  more  illusion  at  all.  I  pity 
you!" 

At  that  moment,  within  the  space  of  a  flash,  she  was 
thinking  of  me  only,  and  she  pities  me!  She  has  found 
something  in  her  grief  to  give  me. 

She  is  silent.  She  is  seeking  the  supreme  complaint; 
she  is  trying  to  find  what  there  is  which  is  more  tor- 
turing and  more  simple;  and  she  stammers — "The 
truth." 

The  truth  is  that  the  love  of  mankind  is  a  single 
season  among  so  many  others.  The  truth  is  that  we 
have  within  us  something  much  more  mortal  than  we 
are,  and  that  it  is  this,  all  the  same,  which  is  all-im- 
portant. Therefore  we  survive  very  much  longer  than 
we  live.  There  are  things  we  think  we  know  and  which 
yet  are  secrets.  Do  we  really  know  what  we  believe? 
We  believe  in  miracles.  We  make  great  efforts  to  strug- 
gle, to  go  mad.  We  should  like  to  let  all  our  good 
deserts  be  seen.  We  fancy  that  we  are  exceptions  and 
that  something  supernatural  is  going  to  come  along. 
But  the  quiet  peace  of  the  truth  fixes  us.  The  im- 
possible becomes  again  the  impossible.  We  are  as  silent 
as  silence  itself. 

We  stayed  lonely  on  the  seat  until  evening.  Our 
hands  and  faces  shone  like  gleams  of  storm  in  the  en- 
tombment of  the  calm  and  the  mist. 

We  go  back  home.  We  wait  and  then  have  dinner. 
We  live  these  few  hours.  And  we  see  ourselves  alone 
in  the  house,  facing  each  other,  as  never  we  saw  our- 
selves, and  we  do  not  know  what  to  do!  It  is  a  real 
drama  of  vacancy  which  is  breaking  loose.  We  are  liv- 
ing together;  our  movements  are  in  harmony,  they  touch 
and  mingle.  But  all  of  it  is  empty.  We  do  not  long 
for  each  other,  we  can  no  longer  expect  each  other, 
we  have  no  dreams,  we  are  not  happy.  It  is  a  sort  of 


236  LIGHT 

V 

imitation  of  life  by  phantoms,  by  beings  who,  in  the 
distance  are  beings,  but  close  by — so  close — are  phan- 
toms! 

Then  bedtime  comes.  She  is  sleeping  in  the  little  bed- 
room opposite  mine  across  the  landing,  less  fine  than 
mine  and  smaller,  hung  with  an  old  and  faded  paper, 
where  the  patterned  flowers  are  only  an  irregular  relief, 
with  traces  here  and  there  of  powder,  of  colored  dust 
and  ashes. 

We  are  going  to  separate  on  the  landing.  To-day  is 
not  the  first  time  like  that!  but  to-day  we  are  feeling 
this  great  rending  which  is  not  one.  She  has  begun  to 
undress.  She  has  taken  off  her  blouse.  I  see  her  neck 
and  her  breasts,  a  little  less  firm  than  before,  through 
her  chemise;  and  half  tumbling  on  to  the  nape  of  her 
neck,  the  fair  hair  which  once  magnificently  flamed  on 
her  like  a  fire  of  straw. 

She  only  says,  "It's  better  to  be  a  man  than  a  woman." 

Then  she  replies  to  my  silence,  "You  see,  we  don't 
know  what  to  say,  now." 

In  the  angle  of  the  narrow  doorway  she  spoke  with  a 
kind  of  immensity. 

She  goes  into  her  room  and  disappears.  Before  I 
went  to  the  war  we  slept  in  the  same  bed.  We  used 
to  lie  down  side  by  side,  so  as  to  be  annihilated  in  un- 
consciousness, or  to  go  and  dream  somewhere  else. 
(Commonplace  life  has  shipwrecks  worse  than  in  Shakes- 
spearean  dramas.  For  man  and  wife — to  sleep,  to  die.) 
But  since  I  came  back  we  separate  ourselves  with  a  wall. 
This  sincerity  that  I  have  brought  back  in  my  eyes  and 
mind  has  changed  the  semblances  round  about  me  into 
reality,  more  than  I  imagine.  Marie  is  hiding  from 
me  her  faded  but  disregarded  body.  Her  modesty  has 
begun  again;  yes,  she  has  ended  by  beginning  again. 

She  has  shut  her  door.  She  is  undressing,  alone  in 
her  room,  slowly,  and  as  if  uselessly.  There  is  only 


GHOSTS  237 

the  light  of  her  little  lamp  to  caress  her  loosened  hair, 
in  which  the  others  cannot  yet  see  the  white  ones,  the 
frosty  hairs  that  she  alone  touches. 

Her  door  is  shut,  decisive,  banal,  dreary. 

Among  some  papers  on  my  table  I  see  the  poem  again 
which  we  once  found  out  of  doors,  the  bit  of  paper 
escaped  from  the  mysterious  hands  which  wrote  on  it, 
and  come  to  the  stone  seat.  It  ended  by  whispering, 
"Only  I  know  the  tears  that  brimming  rise,  your  beauty 
blended  with  your  smile  to  espy." 

In  the  days  of  yore  it  had  made  us  smile  with  delight. 
To-night  there  are  real  tears  in  my  eyes.  What  is  it? 
I  dimly  see  that  there  is  something  more  than  what  we 
have  seen,  than  what  we  have  said,  than  what  we  have 
felt  to-day.  One  day,  perhaps,  she  and  I  will  exchange 
better  and  richer  sayings;  and  so,  in  that  day,  all  the 
sadness  will  be  of  some  service. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  CULT 

I  HAVE  been  to  the  factory.  I  felt  as  much  lost  as  if 
I  had  found  myself  translated  there  after  a  sleep  of  leg- 
endary length.  There  are  many  new  faces.  The  factory 
has  tripled — quadrupled  in  importance;  quite  a  town 
of  flimsy  buildings  has  been  added  to  it. 

"They've  built  seven  others  like  it  in  three  months!" 
says  Monsieur  Mielvaque  to  me,  proudly. 

The  manager  is  now  another  young  nephew  of  the 
Messrs.  Gozlan.  He  was  living  in  Paris  and  came  back 
on  the  day  of  the  general  mobilization.  Old  Monsieur 
Gozlan  looks  after  everything. 

I  have  a  month  to  wait.  I  wait  slowly,  as  everybody 
does.  The  houses  in  the  lower  town  are  peopled  by 
absentees.  When  you  go  in  they  talk  to  you  about  the 
last  letter,  and  always  make  the  same  huge  and  barren 
reflections  on  the  war.  In  my  street  there  are  twelve 
houses  where  the  people  no  longer  await  anything  and 
have  nothing  to  say,  like  Madame  Marcassin.  In  some 
others,  the  one  who  has  disappeared  will  perhaps  come 
back;  and  they  go  about  in  them  in  a  sort  of  hope  which 
leans  only  on  emptiness  and  silence.  There  are  women 
who  have  begun  their  lives  again  in  a  kind  of  happy 
misery.  The  places  near  them  of  the  dead  or  the  living 
they  have  filled  up. 

The  main  streets  have  not  changed,  any  more  than 
the  squares,  except  the  one  which  is  encrusted  with  a 
collection  of  huts.  The  life  in  them  is  as  bustling  as 

238 


THE  CULT  239 

ever,  and  of  brighter  color,  and  more  amusing.  Many 
young  men,  rich  or  influential,  are  passing  their  war- 
time in  the  offices  of  the  depot,  of  the  Exchange,  of 
Food  Control,  of  Enlistment,  of  the  Pay  Department, 
and  other  administrations  whose  names  one  cannot  re- 
member. The  priests  are  swarming  in  the  two  hospitals; 
on  the  faces  of  orderlies,  cyclist  messengers,  doorkeepers 
and  porters  you  can  read  their  origin.  For  myself,  I 
have  never  seen  a  parson  in  the  front  lines  wearing  the 
uniform  of  the  ordinary  fighting  soldier,  the  uniform 
of  those  who  make  up  the  fatigue  parties  and  fight  as 
well  against  perfect  misery! 

My  thought  turns  to  what  the  man  once  said  to  me 
who  was  by  me  among  the  straw  of  a  stable,  "Why  is 
there  no  more  justice?"  By  the  little  that  I  know  and 
have  seen  and  am  seeing,  I  can  tell  what  an  enormous 
rush  sprang  up,  at  the  same  time  as  the  war,  against 
the  equality  of  the  living.  And  if  that  injustice,  which 
was  turning  the  heroism  of  the  others  into  a  cheat  has 
not  been  openly  extended,  it  is  because  the  war  has 
lasted  too  long,  and  the  scandal  became  so  glaring  that 
they  were  forced  to  look  into  it.  It  seems  that  it  is  only 
through  fear  that  they  have  ended  by  deciding  so  much. 
****** 

I  go  into  Fontan's.  Crillon  is  with  me — I  picked 
him  up  from  the  little  glass  cupboard  of  his  shop  as  I 
came  out.  He  is  finding  it  harder  and  harder  to  keep 
going;  he  has  aged  a  lot,  and  his  frame,  so  powerfully 
bolted  together,  cracks  with  rheumatism. 

We  sit  down.  Crillon  groans  and  bends  so  low  in 
his  hand-to-hand  struggle  with  the  pains  which  beset 
him  that  I  think  his  forehead  is  going  to  strike  the 
marble-topped  table. 

He  tells  me  in  detail  of  his  little  business,  which  is 
going  badly,  and  how  he  has  confused  glimpses  of  the 
bare  and  empty  future  which  awaits  him — when  a  ser- 


240  LIGHT 

geant  with  a  fair  mustache  and  eyeglasses  makes  his 
entry.  This  personage,  whose  collar  shows  white  thun- 
derbolts,1 instead  of  a  number,  comes  and  sits  near  us. 
He  orders  a  port  wine  and  Victorine  serves  it  with  a 
smile.  She  smiles  at  random,  and  indistinctly,  at  all 
the  men,  like  Nature. 

The  newcomer  takes  off  his  cap,  looks  at  the  windows 
and  yawns.  "I'm  bored,"  he  says. 

He  comes  nearer  and  freely  offers  us  his  talk.  He 
sets  himself  chattering  with  spirited  and  easy  grace,  of 
men  and  things.  He  works  at  the  Town  Hall  and  knows 
a  lot  of  secrets  which  he  lets  us  into.  He  points  to  a 
couple  of  sippers  at  a  table  in  the  corner  reserved  for 
commercial  people.  "The  grocer  and  the  ironmonger," 
he  says,  "there's  two  that  know  how  to  go  about  it!  At 
the  beginning  of  the  war  there  was  a  business  crisis 
by  the  force  of  things,  and  they  had  to  tighten  their 
belts  like  the  rest.  Then  they  got  their  revenge  and 
swept  the  dibs  in  and  hoarded  stuff  up,  and  speculated, 
and  they're  still  revenging  themselves.  You  should  see 
the  stocks  of  goods  they  sit  on  in  their  cellars  and  wait 
for  the  rises  that  the  newspapers  foretell!  They've  got 
one  excuse,  it's  true — there  are  others,  bigger  people, 
that  are  worse.  Ah,  you  can  say  that  the  business  people 
will  have  given  a  rich  notion  of  their  patriotism  during 
the  war!" 

The  fair  young  man  stretches  himself  backward  to 
his  full  length,  with  his  heels  together  on  the  ground, 
his  arms  rigid  on  the  table,  and  opens  his  mouth  with 
all  his  might  and  for  a  long  time.  Then  he  goes  on  in 
a  loud  voice,  careless  who  hears  him,  "Why,  I  saw  the 
other  day,  at  the  Town  Hall,  piles  of  the  Declarations 
of  Profits,  required  by  the  Treasury.  I  don't  know,  of 
course,  for  I've  not  read  them,  but  I'm  as  sure  and  cer- 
tain as  you  are  that  all  those  innumerable  piles  of  dec- 

1  See  page,  148,  footnote. — Tr. 


THE  CULT  2411 

larations  are  just  so  many  columns  of  cod  and  humbug 
and  lies!" 

Intelligent  and  inexhaustible,  accurately  posted 
through  the  clerk's  job  in  which  he  is  sheltering,  the  ser- 
geant relates  with  careless  gestures  his  stories  of  scan- 
dals and  huge  profiteering,  "while  our  good  fellows  are 
fighting."  He  talks  and  talks,  and  concludes  by  saying 
that  after  all  he  doesn't  care  a  damn  as  long  as  they  let 
him  alone. 

Monsieur  Fontan  is  in  the  cafe.  A  woman  leads  up 
to  him  a  tottering  being  whom  she  introduces  to  him. 
"He's  ill,  Monsieur  Fontan,  because  he  hasn't  had  enough 
to  eat." 

"Well  now!  And  I'm  ill,  too,"  says  Fontan  jovially, 
"but  it's  because  I  eat  too  much." 

The  sergeant  takes  his  leave,  touching  us  with  a  slight 
salute.  "He's  right,  that  smart  gentleman,"  says  Crillon 
to  me.  "It's  always  been  like  that,  and  it  will  always  be 
like  that,  you  know!" 

Aloof,  I  keep  silence.  I  am  still  tired  and  stunned 
by  all  these  sayings  in  the  little  time  since  I  remained 
so  long  without  hearing  anything  but  myself.  But  I  am 
sure  they  are  all  true,  and  that  patriotism  is  only  a  word 
or  a  tool  for  many.  And  feeling  the  rags  of  the  common 
soldier  still  on  me,  I  knit  my  brows  and  realize  that  it 
is  a  disgrace  and  a  shame  for  the  poor  to  be  deceived 
as  they  are. 

Crillon  is  smiling,  as  always!  On  his  huge  face,  where 
every  passing  day  now  leaves  some  marks,  on  his  round- 
eyed  weakened  face  with  its  mouth  opened  like  a  cypher, 
the  old  smile  of  yore  is  spread  out.  I  used  to  think  then 
that  resignation  was  a  virtue;  I  see  now  that  it  is  a  vice. 
The  optimist  is  the  permanent  accomplice  of  all  evil- 
doers. This  passive  smile  which  I  admired  but  lately — 
I  find  it  despicable  on  this  poor  face. 


242  LIGHT 

The  cafe  has  filled  up  with  workmen,  either  old  or 
very  young,  from  the  town  and  the  country,  but  chiefly 
the  country. 

What  are  they  doing,  these  lowly,  these  ill-paid?  They 
are  dirty  and  they  are  drinking.  They  are  dark,  although 
it  is  the  forenoon,  because  they  are  dirty.  In  the  light 
there  is  that  obscurity  which  they  carry  on  them;  and 
a  bad  smell  removes  itself  with  them. 

I  see  three  convalescent  soldiers  from  the  hospital 
join  the  plebeian  groups;  they  are  recognized  by  their 
coarse  clothes,  their  caps  and  big  boots,  and  because 
their  gestures  are  soldered  together  and  conform  to  a 
common  movement. 

By  force  of  "glasses  all  round,"  these  drinkers  begin 
to  talk  in  loud  voices;  they  get  excited  and  shout  at 
random;  and  in  the  end  they  drop  visibly  into  uncon- 
sciousness, into  oblivion,  into  defeat. 

The  wine-merchant  is  at  his  cash  desk,  which  shines 
like  silver.  He  stands  behind  the  center  of  it,  colorless, 
motionless,  like  a  bust  on  a  pedestal.  His  bare  arms 
hang  down,  pallid  as  his  face.  He  comes  and  wipes 
away  some  spilled  wine,  and  his  hands  shine  and  drip, 

like  a  butcher's. 

****** 

"I'm  forgetting  to  tell  you,"  cried  Crillon,  "that  they 
had  news  of  your  regiment  a  few  days  ago.  Little  Melus- 
son's  had  his  head  blown  to  bits  in  an  attack.  Here, 
y'know;  he  was  a  softy  and  an  idler.  Well,  he  was  at- 
tacking like  a  devil.  War  remakes  men  like  that!" 

"Termite?"  I  asked. 

"Ah,  yes!  Termite  the  poacher!  Why  it's  a  long 
time  since  they  haven't  seen  him.  Disappeared,  it  seems. 
S'pose  he's  killed." 

Then  he  talks  to  me  of  this  place.  Brisbille,  for  in- 
stance, always  the  same,  a  Socialist  and  a  scandal. 

"There's  him,"  says  Crillon,  "and  that  dangerous  chap 


THE  CULT  243 

Eudo  as  well,  with  his  notorient  civilities.  Would  you 
believe  it,  they've  not  been  able  to  pinch  him  for  his 
spying  proclensities!  Nothing  in  his  past  life,  nothing 
in  his  conductions,  nothing  in  his  expensiture,  nothing 
to  find  fault  with.  Mustn't  he  be  a  deep  one?" 

I  presume  to  think — suppose  it  was  all  untrue?  Yet 
it  seemed  a  formidable  task  to  upset  on  the  spot  one  of 
the  oldest  and  most  deeply  rooted  creeds  in  our  town. 
But  I  risk  it.  "Perhaps  he's  innocent." 

Crillon  jumps,  and  shouts,  "What!  You  suspect  him 
of  being  innocent!"  His  face  is  convulsed  and  he  ex- 
plodes with  an  enormous  laugh,  a  laugh  irresistible  as  a 
tidal  wave,  the  laugh  of  all! 

"Talking  about  Termite,"  says  Crillon  a  moment  later, 
"it  seems  it  wasn't  him  that  did  the  poaching." 

The  military  convalescents  are  leaving  the  tavern. 
Crillon  watches  them  go  away  with  their  parallel  move- 
ments and  their  sticks. 

"Yes,  there's  wounded  here  and  there's  dead  there!" 
he  says;  "all  those  who  hadn't  got  a  privilential  situa- 
tion! Ah,  la,  la!  The  poor  devils,  when  you  think  of 
it,  eh,  what  they  must  have  suffered!  And  at  this  mo- 
ment, all  the  time,  there's  some  dying.  And  we  stand 
it  very  well,  an'  hardly  think  of  it.  They  didn't  need  to 
kill  so  many,  that's  certain — there's  been  faults  and  blun- 
ders, as  everybody  knows  of.  But  fortunately,"  he  adds, 
with  animation,  putting  on  my  shoulder  the  hand  that  is 
big  as  a  young  animal,  "the  soldiers'  deaths  and  the 
chief's  blunders,  that'll  all  disappear  one  fine  day,  melted 
away  and  forgotten  in  the  glory  of  the  victorious  Com- 
mander!" 

****** 

There  has  been  much  talk  in  our  quarter  of  a  Me- 
morial Festival. 

I  am  not  anxious  to  be  present  and  I  watch  Marie 


244  LIGHT 

set  off.  Then  I  feel  myself  impelled  to  go  there,  as  if 
it  were  a  duty. 

I  cross  the  bridge.  I  stop  at  the  corner  of  the  Old 
Road,  on  the  edge  of  the  fields.  Two  steps  away  there 
is  the  cemetery,  which  is  hardly  growing,  since  nearly  all 
those  who  die  now  are  not  anywhere. 

I  lift  my  eyes  and  take  in  the  whole  spectacle  together. 
The  hill  which  rises  in  front  of  me  is  full  of  people.  It 
trembles  like  a  swarm  of  bees.  Up  above,  on  the  ave- 
nue of  trimmed  limetrees,  it  is  crowned  by  the  sunshine 
and  by  the  red  platform,  which  scintillates  with  the  rich- 
ness of  dresses  and  uniforms  and  musical  instruments. 

Then  there  is  a  red  barrier.  On  this  side  of  that  bar- 
rier, lower  down,  the  public  swarms  and  rustles. 

I  recognize  the  great  picture  of  the  past.  I  remem- 
ber this  ceremony,  spacious  as  a  season,  which  has  been 
regularly  staged  here  so  many  times  in  the  course  of  my 
childhood  and  youth,  and  with  almost  the  same  rites 
and  forms.  It  was  like  this  last  year,  and  the  other 
years,  and  a  century  ago  and  centuries  since. 

Near  me  an  old  peasant  in  sabots  is  planted.  Rags, 
shapeless  and  colorless — the  color  of  time — cover  the 
eternal  man  of  the  fields.  He  is  what  he  always  was.  He 
blinks,  leaning  on  a  stick;  he  holds  his  cap  in  his  hand 
because  what  he  sees  is  so  like  a  church  service.  His 
legs  are  trembling;  he  wonders  if  he  ought  to  be  kneel- 
ing. 

And  I,  I  feel  myself  diminished,  cut  back,  returned 

through  the  cycles  of  time  to  the  little  that  I  am. 
****** 

Up  there,  borne  by  the  flag-draped  rostrum,  a  man 
is  speaking.  He  lifts  a  sculptural  head  aloft,  whose  hair 
is  white  as  marble. 

At  my  distance  I  can  hardly  hear  him.  But  the  wind 
carries  me  some  phrases,  louder  shouted,  of  his  perora- 
tion. He  is  preaching  resignation  to  the  people,  and  the 


THE  CULT  245 

continuance  of  things.  He  implores  them  to  abandon 
finally  the  accursed  war  of  classes,  to  devote  themselves 
forever  to  the  blessed  war  of  races  in  all  its  shapes. 
After  the  war  there  must  be  no  more  social  Utopias,  but 
discipline  instead,  whose  grandeur  and  beauty  the  war 
has  happily  revealed,  the  union  of  rich  and  poor  for  na- 
tional expansion  and  the  victory  of  France  in  the  world, 
and  sacred  hatred  of  the  Germans,  which  is  a  virtue  in 
the  French.  Let  us  remember! 

Then  another  orator  excites  himself  and  shouts  that 
the  war  has  been  such  a  magnificent  harvest  of  heroism 
that  it  must  not  be  regretted.  It  has  been  a  good  thing 
for  France;  it  has  made  lofty  virtues  and  noble  in- 
stincts gush  forth  from  a  nation  which  seemed  to  be 
decadent.  Our  people  had  need  of  an  awakening  and 
to  recover  themselves,  and  acquire  new  vigor.  With 
metaphors  which  hover  and  vibrate  he  proclaims  the 
glory  of  killing  and  being  killed,  he  exalts  the  ancient 
passion  for  plumes  and  scarlet  in  which  the  heart  of 
France  is  molded. 

Alone  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  I  feel  myself  go  icy 
by  the  touch  of  these  words  and  commands,  which  link 
future  and  past  together  and  misery  to  misery.  I  have 
already  heard  them  resounding  forever.  A  world  of 
thoughts  growls  confusedly  within  me.  Once  I  cried 
noiselessly,  "No!" — a  deformed  cry,  a  strangled  protest 
of  all  my  faith  against  all  the  fallacy  which  comes  down 
upon  us.  That  first  cry  which  I  have  risked  among  men, 
I  cast  almost  as  a  visionary,  but  almost  as  a  dumb  man. 
The  old  peasant  did  not  even  turn  his  earthy,  gigantic 
head.  And  I  hear  a  roar  of  applause  go  by,  of  popular 
expanse. 

I  go  up  to  join  Marie,  mingling  with  the  crowd;  I 
divide  serried  knots  of  them.  Suddenly  there  is  pro- 
found silence,  and  every  one  stands  immovable.  Up 
there  the  Bishop  is  on  his  feet.  He  raises  his  forefinger 


246  LIGHT 

and  says,  "The  dead  are  not  dead.  They  are  rewarded 
in  heaven;  but  even  here  on  earth  they  are  alive.  They 
keep  watch  in  our  hearts,  eternally  preserved  from  obliv- 
ion. Theirs  is  the  immortality  of  glory  and  gratitude. 
They  are  not  dead,  and  we  should  envy  them  more  than 
pity." 

And  he  blesses  the  audience,  all  of  whom  bow  or 
kneel.  I  remained  upright,  stubbornly,  with  clenched 
teeth.  And  I  remember  things,  and  I  say  to  myself, 
"Have  the  dead  died  for  nothing?  If  the  world  is  to 
stay  as  it  is,  then — yes!" 

Several  men  did  not  bend  their  backs  at  first,  and 
then  they  obeyed  the  general  movement;  and  I  felt  on 
my  shoulders  all  the  heavy  weight  of  the  whole  bowing 
multitude. 

Monsieur  Joseph  Boneas  is  talking  within  a  circle. 
Seeing  him  again  I  also  feel  for  one  second  the  fascina- 
tion he  once  had  for  me.  He  is  wearing  an  officer's  uni- 
form of  the  Town  Guard,  and  his  collar  hides  the  ravages 
in  his  neck.  He  is  holding  forth.  What  says  he?  He 
says,  "We  must  take  the  long  view." 

"We  must  take  the  long  view.  For  my  part,  the  only 
thing  I  admire  in  militarist  Prussia  is  its  military  organ- 
ization. After  the  war — for  we  must  not  limit  our  out- 
look to  the  present  conflict — we  must  take  lessons  from 
it,  and  just  let  the  simple-minded  humanitarians  go  on 
bleating  about  universal  peace." 

He  goes  on  to  say  that  in  his  opinion  the  orators  did 
not  sufficiently  insist  on  the  necessity  for  tying  the  eco- 
nomic hands  of  Germany  after  the  war.  No  annexations, 
perhaps;  but  tariffs,  which  would  be  much  better.  And 
he  shows  in  argument  the  advantages  and  prosperity 
brought  by  carnage  and  destruction. 

He  sees  me.  He  adorns  himself  with  a  smile  and 
comes  forward  with  proffered  hand.  I  turn  violently 


THE  CULT  247 

away.  I  have  no  use  for  the  hand  of  this  sort  of  out- 
sider, this  sort  of  traitor. 

They  lie.  That  ludicrous  person  who  talks  of  taking 
the  long  view  while  there  are  still  in  the  world  only  a  few 
superb  martyrs  who  have  dared  to  do  it,  he  who  is  satis- 
fied to  contemplate,  beyond  the  present  misery  of  men, 
the  misery  of  their  children;  and  the  white-haired  man 
who  was  extolling  slavery  just  now,  and  trying  to  turn 
aside  the  demands  of  the  people  and  switch  them  on  to 
traditional  massacre;  and  he  who  from  the  height  of  his 
bunting  and  trestles  would  have  put  a  glamour  of  beauty 
and  morality  on  battles;  and  he,  the  attitudinizer,  who 
brings  to  life  the  memory  of  the  dead  only  to  deny  with 
word  trickery  the  terrible  evidence  of  death,  he  who 
rewards  the  martyrs  with  the  soft  soap  of  false  prom- 
ises— all  these  people  tell  lies,  lies,  lies!  Through  their 
words  I  can  hear  the  mental  reservation  they  are  chew- 
ing over — "Around  us,  the  deluge;  and  after  us,  the 
deluge."  Or  else  they  do  not  even  lie;  they  see  nothing 
and  they  know  not  what  they  say. 

They  have  opened  the  red  barrier.  Applause  and  con- 
gratulations cross  each  other.  Some  notabilities  come 
down  from  the  rostrum,  they  look  at  me,  they  are  ob- 
viously interested  in  the  wounded  soldier  that  I  am,  they 
advance  towards  me.  Among  them  is  the  intellectual 
person  who  spoke  first.  He  is  wagging  the  white  head 
and  its  cauliflower  curls,  and  looking  all  ways  with  eyes 
as  empty  as  those  of  a  king  of  cards.  They  told  me  his 
name,  but  I  have  forgotten  it  with  contempt.  I  slip 
away  from  them.  I  am  bitterly  remorseful  that  for  so 
long  a  portion  of  my  life  I  believed  what  Boneas  said. 
I  accuse  myself  of  having  formerly  put  my  trust  in 
speakers  and  writers  who — however  learned,  distin- 
guished, famous — were  only  imbeciles  or  villains.  I  fly 
from  these  people,  since  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  an* 
swer  and  resist  them — or  to  cry  out  upon  them  that 


248  LIGHT 

the  only  memory  it  is  important  to  preserve  of  the 
years  we  have  endured  is  that  of  their  loathsome  horror 
and  lunacy. 

****** 

But  the  few  words  fallen  from  on  high  have  sufficed 
to  open  my  eyes,  to  show  me  that  the  Separation  I 
dimly  saw  in  the  tempest  of  my  nights  in  hospital  was 
true.  It  comes  down  from  vacancy  and  the  clouds,  it 
takes  form  and  it  takes  root — it  is  there,  it  is  there;  and 
the  indictment  comes  to  light,  as  precise  and  as  tragic 
as  that  row  of  faces! 

Kings?  There  they  are.  There  are  many  different 
kinds  of  king,  just  as  there  are  different  gods.  But 
there  is  one  royalty  everywhere,  and  that  is  the  very 
form  of  ancient  society,  the  great  machine  which  is 
stronger  than  men.  And  all  the  personages  enthroned 
on  that  rostrum — those  business  men  and  bishops,  those 
politicians  and  great  merchants,  those  bulky  office-hold- 
ers or  journalists,  those  old  generals  in  sumptuous  deco- 
rations, those  writers  in  uniform — they  are  the  custodians 
of  the  highest  law  and  its  executors. 

It  is  those  people  whose  interests  are  common  and 
are  contrary  to  those  of  mankind;  and  their  interests 
are — above  all  and  imperiously — let  nothing  change! 
It  is  those  people  who  keep  their  eternal  subjects  in 
eternal  order,  who  deceive  and  dazzle  them,  who  take 
their  brains  away  as  they  take  their  bodies,  who  flat- 
ter their  servile  instincts,  who  make  shallow,  resplendent 
creeds  for  them,  and  explain  huge  happenings  away  with 
all  the  pretexts  they  like.  It  is  because  of  them  that 
the  law  of  things  does  not  rest  on  justice  and  the  moral 
law. 

If  some  of  them  are  unconscious  of  it,  no  matter. 
Neither  does  it  matter  that  all  of  them  do  not  always 
profit  by  the  public's  servitude,  nor  that  some  of  them, 
sometimes,  even  happen  to  suffer  from  it.  They  are 


THE  CULT  249 

none  the  less,  all  of  them,  by  their  solid  coalition,  ma- 
terial and  moral,  the  defenders  of  lies  above  and  de- 
lusion below.  These  are  the  people  who  reign  in  the 
place  of  kings,  or  at  the  same  time,  here  as  everywhere. 

Formerly  I  used  to  see  a  harmony  of  interests  and 
ideals  on  all  that  festive,  sunlit  hill.  Now  I  see  reality 
broken  in  two,  as  I  did  on  my  bed  of  pain.  I  see  the 
two  enemy  races  face  to  face — the  victors  and  the  van- 
quished. 4i! 

Monsieur  Gozlan  looks  like  a  master  of  masters — an 
aged  collector  of  fortune,  whose  speculations  are  famous, 
whose  wealth  increases  unaided,  who  makes  as  much 
profit  as  he  likes  and  holds  the  district  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand.  His  vulgar  movements  flash  with  dia- 
monds, and  a  bulky  golden  trinket  hangs  on  his  belly 
like  a  phallus.  The  generals  beside  him — those  glorious 
potentates  whose  smiles  are  made  of  so  many  souls — • 
and  the  administrators  and  the  honorables  only  look  like 
secondary  actors. 

Fontan  occupies  considerable  space  on  the  rostrum. 
He  drowses  there,  with  his  two  spherical  hands  planted 
in  front  of  him.  The  voluminous  trencherman  digests 
and  blows  forth  with  his  buttered  mouth;  and  what  he 
has  eaten  purrs  within  him.  As  for  Rampaille,  the 
butcher,  he  has  mingled  with  the  public.  He  is  rich  but 
dressed  with  bad  taste.  It  is  his  habit  to  say,  "I  am  a 
poor  man  of  the  people,  I  am;  look  at  my  dirty  clothes." 
A  moment  ago,  when  the  lady  who  was  collecting  for  the 
Lest-we-Forget  League  suddenly  confronted  him  and 
trapped  him  amid  general  attention,  he  fumbled  des- 
perately in  his  fob  and  dragged  three  sous  out  of  his 
body.  There  are  several  like  him  on  this  side  of  the 
barrier,  looking  as  though  they  were  part  of  the  crowd, 
but  only  attached  to  it  by  their  trade.  Kings  do  not 
now  carry  royalty  everywhere  on  their  sleeves;  they  ob- 
literate themselves  in  the  clothes  of  everybody.  But  all 


250  LIGHT 

the  hundred  faces  of  royalty  have  the  same  signs,  all 
of  them,  and  are  distinctly  repeated  through  th2ir  smiles 
of  cupidity,  rapacity,  ferocity. 

And  there  the  dark  multitude  fidgets  about.  By  foot- 
paths and  streets  they  have  come  from  the  country  and 
the  town.  I  see,  gazing  earnestly,  stiff-set  with  atten- 
tion, faces  scorched  by  rude  contact  with  the  seasons  or 
blanched  by  bad  atmospheres;  the  sharp  and  mummified 
face  of  the  peasant;  faces  of  young  men  grown  bitter 
before  they  have  come  of  age;  of  women  grown  ugly 
before  they  have  come  of  age,  who  draw  the  little  wings 
of  their  capes  over  their  faded  blouses  and  faded  throats; 
the  clerks  of  anemic  and  timorous  career;  and  the  little 
people  with  whom  times  are  so  difficult,  whom  their 
mediocrity  depresses;  all  that  stirring  of  backs  and 
shoulders  and  hanging  arms,  in  poverty  dressed  up  or 
naked.  Behold  their  numbers  and  immense  strength. 
Behold,  therefore,  authority  and  justice.  For  justice  and 
authority  are  not  hollow  formulas — they  are  life,  the 
most  of  life  there  can  be;  they  are  mankind,  they  are 
mankind  in  all  places  and  all  times.  These  words,  jus- 
tice and  authority,  do  not  echo  in  an  abstract  sphere. 
They  are  rooted  in  the  human  being.  They  overflow 
and  palpitate.  When  I  demand  justice,  I  am  not  grop- 
ing in  a  dream,  I  am  crying  from  the  depths  of  all  un- 
happy hearts. 

Such  are  they,  that  mountain  of  people  heaped  on  the 
ground  like  metal  for  the  roads,  overwhelmed  by  un- 
happiness,  debased  by  charity  and  asking  for  it,  bound 
to  the  rich  by  urgent  necessity,  entangled  in  the  wheels 
of  a  single  machine,  the  machine  of  frightful  repetition. 
And  in  that  multitude  I  also  place  nearly  all  young  peo- 
ple, whoever  they  are,  because  of  their  docility  and  their 
general  ignorance.  These  lowly  people  form  an  imposing 
mass  as  far  as  one  may  see,  yet  each  of  them  is  hardly 
anything,  because  he  is  isolated.  It  is  almost  a  mistake 


THE  CULT  251 

to  count  them;  what  you  see  when  you  look  at  the  multi- 
tude is  an  immensity  made  of  nothing. 

And  the  people  of  to-day — overloaded  with  gloom  and 
intoxicated  with  prejudice — see  blood,  because  of  the  red 
hangings  of  rostrums;  they  are  fascinated  by  the  sparkle 
of  diamonds,  of  necklaces,  of  decorations,  of  the  eye- 
glasses of  the  intellectuals.  They  have  eyes  but  they  see 
not,  ears  but  they  hear  not;  arms  which  they  do  not 
use;  and  they  are  thoughtless  because  they  let  others  do 
their  thinking!  And  the  other  half  of  this  same  multi- 
tude is  yonder,  looking  for  Man  and  looked  for  by  Man, 
in  the  big  black  furrows  where  blood  is  scattered  and 
the  human  race  is  disappearing.  And  still  farther  away, 
in  another  part  of  the  world,  the  same  throne-like  plat- 
forms are  crushing  into  the  same  immense  areas  of  men; 
and  the  same  gilded  servants  of  royalty  are  scattering 
broadcast  words  which  are  only  a  translation  of  those 
which  fell  on  us  here. 

Some  women  in  mourning  are  hardly  stains  on  this 
gloomy  unity.  They  wander  and  turn  round  in  the 
open  spaces,  and  are  the  same  as  they  were  in  ancient 
times.  They  are  not  of  any  age  or  any  century,  these 
murdered  souls,  covered  with  black  veils;  they  are  you 
and  I. 

My  vision  was  true  from  top  to  bottom.  The  evil 
dream  has  become  a  concrete  tragi-comedy  which  is 
worse.  It  is  inextricable,  heavy,  crushing.  I  flounder 
from  detail  to  detail  of  it;  it  drags  me  along.  Behold 
what  is.  Behold,  therefore,  what  will  be — exploitation 
to  the  last  breath,  to  the  limit  of  wearing  out,  to  death 
perfected! 

I  have  overtaken  Marie.  By  her  side  I  feel  more 
defenseless  than  when  I  am  alone.  While  we  watch  the 
festival,  the  shining  hurly-burly,  murmuring  and  eulogis- 
tic, the  Baroness  espies  me,  smiles  and  signs  to  me  to  go 
to  her.  So  I  go,  and  in  the  presence  of  all  she  pays  me 


252  LIGHT 

some  compliment  or  other  on  my  service  at  the  front. 
She  is  dressed  in  black  velvet  and  wears  her  white  hair 
like  a  diadem.  Twenty-five  years  of  vassalage  bow  me 
before  her  and  fill  me  with  silence.  And  I  salute  the 
Gozlans  also,  in  a  way  which  I  feel  is  humble  in  spite  of 
myself,  for  they  are  all-powerful  over  me,  and  they  make 
Marie  an  allowance  without  which  we  could  not  live 
properly.  I  am  no  more  than  a  man. 

I  see  Tudor,  whose  eyes  were  damaged  in  Artois,  hesi- 
tating and  groping.  The  Baroness  has  found  a  little  job 
for  him  in  the  castle  kitchens. 

"Isn't  she  good  to  the  wounded  soldiers?"  they  are 
saying  around  me.  "She's  a  real  benefactor!" 

This  time  I  say  aloud,  "There  is  the  real  benefactor," 
and  I  point  to  the  ruin  which  the  young  man  has  become 
whom  we  used  to  know,  to  the  miserable,  darkened  biped 
whose  eyelids  flutter  in  the  daylight,  who  leans  weakly 
against  a  tree  in  face  of  the  festive  crowd,  as  if  it  were 
an  execution  post. 

"Yes — after  all — yes,  yes,"  the  people  about  me  mur- 
mur, timidly;  they  also  blinking  as  though  tardily  en- 
lightened by  the  spectacle  of  the  poor  benefactor. 

But  they  are  not  heard — they  hardly  even  hear  them- 
selves— in  the  flood  of  uproar  from  a  brass  band.  A 
triumphal  march  goes  by  with  the  strong  and  sensual 
driving  force  of  its,  "Forward!  You  shall  not  know!" 
The  audience  fill  themselves  with  brazen  music,  and 
overflow  in  cheers. 

The  ceremony  is  drawing  to  a  close.  They  who  were 
seated  on  the  rostrum  get  up.  Fontan,  bewildered  with 
sleepiness,  struggles  to  put  on  a  tall  hat  which  is  too 
narrow,  and  while  he  screws  it  round  he  grimaces.  Then 
he  smiles  with  his  boneless  mouth.  All  congratulate 
themselves  through  each  other;  they  shake  their  own 
hands;  they  cling  to  themselves.  After  their  fellowship 
in  patriotism  they  are  going  back  to  their  calculations 


THE  CULT  253 

and  gratifications,  glorified  in  their  egotism,  sanctified, 
beatified;  more  than  ever  will  they  blend  their  own  with 
the  common  cause  and  say,  "We  are  the  people!" 

Brisbille,  seeing  one  of  the  orators  passing  near  him, 
throws  him  a  ferocious  look,  and  shouts,  "Land-shark!" 
and  other  virulent  insults. 

But  because  of  the  brass  instruments  let  loose,  people 
only  see  him  open  his  mouth,  and  Monsieur  Mielvaque 
dances  with  delight.  Monsieur  Mielvaque,  declared  unfit 
for  service,  has  been  called  up  again.  More  miserable 
than  ever,  worn  and  pared  and  patched  up,  more  and 
more  parched  and  shriveled  by  hopelessly  long  labor — 
he  blots  out  the  shiny  places  on  his  overcoat  with  his 
pen — Mielvaque  points  to  Brisbille  gagged  by  the  band, 
he  writhes  with  laughter  and  shouts  in  my  ear,  "He 
might  be  trying  to  sing!" 

Madame  Marcassin's  paralyzed  face  appears,  the  dis- 
appearance of  which  she  unceasingly  thinks  has  lacerated 
her  features.  She  also  applauds  the  noise  and  across  her 
face — which  has  gone  out  like  a  lamp — there  shot  a 
flash.  Can  it  be  only  because,  to-day,  attention  is  fixed 
on  her? 

A  mother,  mutilated  in  her  slain  son,  is  giving  her  mite 
to  the  offertory  for  the  Lest-we-Forget  League.  She  is 
bringing  her  poverty's  humble  assistance  to  those  who 
say,  "Remember  evil;  not  that  it  may  be  avoided,  but 
that  it  may  be  revived,  by  exciting  at  random  all  causes 
of  hatred.  Memory  must  be  made  an  infectious  dis- 
ease." Bleeding  and  bjoody,  inflamed  by  the  stupid 
selfishness  of  vengeance,  she  holds  out  her  hand  to  the 
collector,  and  drags  behind  her  a  little  girl  who,  never- 
theless, will  one  day,  perhaps,  be  a  mother. 

Lower  down,  an  apprentice  is  devouring  an  officer's 
uniform  with  his  gaze.  He  stands  there  hypnotized;  and 
the  sky-blue  and  beautiful  crimson  come  off  on  his  eyes. 


254  LIGHT 

At  that  moment  I  saw  clearly  that  beauty  in  uniforms  is 
still  more  wicked  than  stupid. 

Ah!  That  frightful  prophecy  locked  up  within  me 
is  hammering  my  skull,  "I  have  confidence  in  the  abyss 

of  the  people." 

****** 

Wounded  by  everything  I  see,  I  sink  down  in  a  corner. 
Truth  is  simple;  but  the  world  is  no  longer  simple. 
There  are  so  many  things!  How  will  truth  ever  change 
its  defeat  into  victory?  How  is  it  ever  going  to  heal 
all  those  who  do  not  know!  I  grieve  that  I  am  weak  and 
ineffective,  that  I  am  only  I.  On  earth,  alas,  truth  is 
dumb,  and  the  heart  is  only  a  stifled  cry! 

I  look  for  support,  for  some  one  who  does  not  leave 
me  alone.  I  am  too  much  alone,  and  I  look  eagerly.  But 
there  is  only  Brisbille! 

There  is  only  that  tipsy  automaton;  that  parody  of  a 
man. 

There  he  is.  Close  by  he  is  more  drunk  than  in  the 
distance!  Drunkenness  bedaubs  him;  his  eyes  are  filled 
with  wine,  his  cheeks  are  like  baked  clay,  his  nose  like 
a  baked  apple,  he  is  almost  blinded  by  viscous  tufts. 
In  the  middle  of  that  open  space  he  seems  caught  in  a 
whirlpool.  It  happens  that  he  is  in  front  of  me  for  a 
moment,  and  he  hurls  at  my  head  some  furious  phrases 
in  which  I  recognize,  now  and  again,  the  truths  in  which 
I  believe!  Then,  with  antics  at  once  desperate  and  too 
heavy  for  him,  he  tries  to  perform  some  kind  of  panto- 
mime which  represents  the  wealthy  class,  round-paunched 
as  a  bag  of  gold,  sitting  on  the  proletariat  till  their  noses 
are  crushed  in  the  gutter,  and  proclaiming,  with  their 
eyes  up  to  heaven  and  their  hands  on  their  hearts,  "And 
above  all,  no  more  class-wars!"  There  is  something 
alarming  in  the  awkwardness  of  the  grimacing  object 
begotten  by  that  obstructed  brain.  It  seems  as  if  real 


THE  CULT  255^ 

suffering  is  giving  voice  through  him  with  a  beast's 
cry. 

When  he  has  spoken,  he  collapses  on  to  a  stone.  With 
his  fist,  whose  leather  is  covered  with  red  hair,  like  a 
cow's,  he  hides  the  squalid  face  that  looks  as  if  it  had 
been  spat  upon.  "Folks  aren't  wicked,"  he  says,  "but 
they're  stupid,  stupid,  stupid." 

And  Brisbille  cries. 

Just  then  Father  Piot  advances  into  the  space,  with 
his  silver  aureole,  his  benevolent  smile,  and  the  vague 
and  continuous  lisping  which  trickles  from  his  lips. 
He  stops  in  the  middle  of  us,  gives  a  nod  to  each  one 
and  continuing  his  ingenuous  reflections  aloud,  he  mur- 
murs, "Hem,  hem!  The  most  important  thing  of  all,  in 
war,  is  the  return  to  religious  ideas.  Hem!" 

The  monstrous  calm  of  the  saying  makes  me  start,  and 
communicates  final  agitation  to  Brisbille.  Throwing 
himself  upright,  the  blacksmith  flourishes  his  trembling 
fist,  tries  to  hold  it  under  the  old  priest's  chin,  and  bawls, 
"You?  Shall  I  tell  you  how  you  make  me  feel,  eh? 
Why " 

Some  young  men  seize  him,  hustle  him  and  throw 
him  down.  His  head  strikes  the  ground  and  he  is  at 
last  immobile.  Father  Piot  raises  his  arms  to  heaven 
and  kneels  over  the  vanquished  madman.  There  are 
tears  in  the  old  man's  eyes. 

When  we  have  made  a  few  steps  away  I  cannot  help 
saying  to  Marie,  with  a  sort  of  courage,  that  Brisbille 
is  not  wrong  in  all  that  he  says.  Marie  is  shocked,  and 
says,  "Oh!" 

"There  was  a  time,"  she  says,  reproachfully,  "when 
you  set  about  him!" 

I  should  like  Marie  to  understand  what  I  am  wanting 
to  say.  I  explain  to  her,  that  although  he  may  be  a 
drunkard  and  a  brute,  he  is  right  in  what  he  thinks. 
He  stammers  and  hiccups  the  truth,  but  it  was  not  he 


LIGHT 

i 

who  made  it,  and  it  is  whole  and  pure.  He  is  a  de- 
graded prophet,  but  the  relics  of  his  dreams  have  re- 
mained accurate.  And  that  saintly  old  man,  who  is  de- 
votion incarnate,  who  would  not  harm  a  fly,  he  is  only  a 
lowly  servant  of  lies;  but  he  brings  his  little  link  to  the 
chain,  and  he  smiles  on  the  side  of  the  executioners. 

"One  shouldn't  ever  confuse  ideas  with  men.  It's  a 
mistake  that  does  a  lot  of  harm." 

Marie  lowers  her  head  and  says  nothing;  then  she  mur- 
murs, "Yes,  that's  true." 

I  pick  up  the  little  sentence  she  has  given  me.  It  is 
the  first  time  that  approval  of  that  sort  has  brought  her 
near  to  me.  She  has  intelligence  within  her;  she  under- 
stands certain  things.  Women,  in  spite  of  thoughtless 
impulses,  are  quicker  in  understanding  than  men.  Then 
she  says  to  me,  "Since  you  came  back,  you've  been  worry- 
ing your  head  too  much." 

Crillon  was  on  our  heels.  He  stands  in  front  of  me, 
and  looks  displeased. 

"I  was  listening  to  you  just  now,"  he  says;  "I  must 
tell  you  that  since  you  came  back  you  have  the  air  of  a 
foreigner — a  Belgian  or  an  American.  You  say  intol- 
antable  things.  We  thought  at  first  your  mind  had  got 
a  bit  unhinged.  Unfortunately,  it's  not  that.  Is  it  be- 
cause you've  turned  sour?  Anyway,  I  don't  know  what 
advantage  you're  after,  but  I  must  cautionize  you  that 
you're  anielating  everybody.  We  must  put  ourselves 
in  these  people's  places.  Apropos  of  this,  and  apropos 
of  that,  you  make  proposals  of  a  tendicious  character 
which  doesn't  escape  them.  You  aren't  like  the  rest 
any  more.  If  you  go  on  you'll  look  as  silly  as  a  giant, 
and  if  you're  going  to  frighten  folks,  look  out  for  your- 
self!" 

He  plants  himself  before  me  in  massive  conviction. 
The  full  daylight  reveals  more  crudely  the  aging  of  his 
features.  His  skin  is  stretched  on  the  bones  of  his  head, 


THE  CULT  257 

and  the  muscles  of  his  neck  and  shoulders  work  badly; 
they  stick,  like  old  drawers. 

"And  then,  after  all,  what  do  you  want?  We've  got 
to  carry  the  war  on,  eh?  We  must  give  the  Bodies  hell, 
to  sum  up." 

With  an  effort,  wearied  beforehand,  I  ask,  "And  after- 
wards?" 

"What — afterwards?  Afterwards  there'll  be  wars, 
naturally,  but  civilized  wars.  Afterwards?  Why,  fu- 
ture posterity !  Own  up  that  you'd  like  to  save  the  world, 
eh,  what?  When  you  launch  out  into  these  great 
machinations  you  say  enormities  compulsively.  The  fu- 
ture? Ha,  ha!" 

I  turn  away  from  him.  Of  what  use  to  try  to  tell 
him  that  the  past  is  dead,  that  the  present  is  passing, 
that  the  future  alone  is  positive! 

Through  Crillon's  paternal  admonishment  I  feel  the 
threat  of  the  others.  It  is  not  yet  hostility  around  me; 
but  it  is  already  a  rupture.  With  this  truth  that  clings 
to  me  alone,  amid  the  world  and  its  phantoms,  am  I  not 
indeed  rushing  into  a  sort  of  tragedy  impossible  to 
maintain?  They  who  surround  me,  filled  to  the  lips, 
filled  to  the  eyes,  with  the  gross  acceptance  which  turns 
men  into  beasts,  they  look  at  me  mistrustfully,  ready  to 
be  let  loose  against  me.  Little  more  was  lacking  before 
I  should  be  as  much  a  reprobate  as  Brisbille,  who,  in  this 
very  place,  before  the  war,  stood  up  alone  before  the 
multitude  and  tried  to  tell  them  to  their  faces  that  they 
were  going  into  the  gulf. 

****** 

I  move  away  with  Marie.  We  go  down  into  the  val- 
ley, and  then  climb  Chestnut  Hill.  I  like  these  places 
where  I  used  so  often  to  come  in  the  days  when  every- 
thing around  me  was  a  hell  which  I  did  not  see.  Now 
that  I  am  a  ghost  returning  from  the  beyond,  this  hill 
still  draws  me  through  the  streets  and  lanes.  I  remem- 


258  LIGHT 

her  it  and  it  remembers  me.  There  is  something  which 
we  share,  which  I  took  away  with  me  yonder,  every- 
where, like  a  secret.  I  hear  that  despoiled  soldier  who 
said,  "Where  I  come  from  there  are  fields  and  paths  and 
the  sea;  nowhere  else  in  the  world  is  there  that,"  and 
amid  my  unhappy  memories  that  extraordinary  saying 
shines  like  news  of  the  truth. 

We  sit  down  on  the  bank  which  borders  the  lane. 
We  can  see  the  town,  the  station  and  carts  on  the  road; 
and  yonder  three  villages  make  harmony,  sometimes  more 
carefully  limned  by  bursts  of  sunshine.  The  horizons  en- 
twine us  in  a  murmur.  The  crossing  where  we  are  is 
the  spot  where  four  roads  make  a  movement  of  re- 
union. 

But  my  spirit  is  no  longer  what  it  was.  Vaguely  I 
seek,  everywhere.  I  must  see  things  with  all  their  con- 
sequences, and  right  to  their  source.  Against  all  the 
chains  of  facts  I  must  have  long  arguments  to  bring; 
and  the  world's  chaos  requires  an  interpretation  equally 

terrible. 

****** 

There  is  a  slight  noise — a  frail  passer-by  and  a  speck 
which  jumps  round  her  feet.  Marie  looks  and  says  me- 
chanically, like  a  devout  woman,  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  "Poor  little  angel!" 

It  is  little  Antoinette  and  her  dog.  She  gropes  for 
the  edge  of  the  road  with  a  stick,  for  she  has  become 
quite  blind.  They  never  looked  after  her.  They  were 
going  to  do  it,  unendingly,  but  they  never  did  it.  They 
always  said,  "Poor  little  angel,"  and  that  was  all. 

She  is  so  miserably  clad  that  you  lower  your  eyes 
before  her,  although  she  cannot  see.  She  wanders  and 
seeks,  incapable  of  understanding  the  wrong  they  have 
done,  they  have  allowed  to  be  done,  the  wrong  which 
no  one  remembers.  Alas,  to  the  prating  indifference 


THE  CULT  259 

and  the  indolent  negligence  of  men  there  is  only  this 
poor  little  blind  witness. 

She  stops  in  front  of  us  and  puts  out  her  hand  awk- 
wardly. She  is  begging!  No  one  troubles  himself  about 
her  now.  She  is  talking  to  her  dog;  he  was  born  in  the 
castle  kennels — Marie  told  me  about  him.  He  was  the 
last  of  a  litter,  ill-shaped,  with  a  head  too  big,  and  bad 
eyes;  and  the  Baroness  said,  as  they  were  going  to  drown 
him,  and  because  she  is  always  thinking  of  good  things, 
"Give  him  to  the  little  blind  girl."  The  child  is  training 
him  to  guide  her;  but  he  is  young,  he  wants  to  play 
when  other  dogs  go  by,  he  hears  her  with  listless  ear. 
It  is  difficult  for  him  to  begin  serious  work;  and  he 
plucks  the  string  from  her  hands.  She  calls  to  him; 
and  waits. 

Then,  during  a  long  time,  a  good  many  passers-by  ap- 
pear and  vanish.  We  do  not  look  at  all  of  them. 

But  lo,  turning  the  corner  like  some  one  of  importance, 
here  comes  a  sleek  and  tawny  mastiff,  with  the  silvery 
tinkle  of  a  trinket  which  gleams  on  his  neck.  He  is 
proclaiming  and  preceding  his  young  mistress,  Made- 
moiselle Evelyn  de  Monthyon,  who  is  riding  her  pony. 
The  little  girl  caracoles  sedately,  clad  in  a  riding  habit, 
and  armed  with  a  crop.  She  has  been  an  orphan  for  a 
long  time.  She  is  the  mistress  of  the  castle.  She  is 
twelve  years  old  and  has  millions.  A  mounted  groom 
in  full  livery  follows  her,  looking  like  a  stage-player  or 
a  chamberlain;  and  then,  with  measured  steps,  an  elderly 
governess,  dressed  in  black  silk,  and  manifestly  thinking 
of  some  Court. 

Mademoiselle  Evelyn  de  Monthyon  and  her  pretty 
name  set  us  thinking  of  Antoinette,  who  hardly  has  a 
name;  and  it  seems  to  us  that  these  two  are  the  only 
ones  who  have  passed  before  our  eyes.  The  difference 
in  the  earthly  fates  of  these  two  creatures  who  have 
both  the  same  fragile  innocence,  the  same  pure  and  com- 


260  LIGHT 

plete  incapacity  of  childhood,  plunges  us  into  a  tragedy 
of  thought.  The  misery  and  the  might  which  have 
fallen  on  those  little  immature  heads  are  equally  unde- 
served. It  is  a  disgrace  for  men  to  see  a  poor  child; 
it  is  also  a  disgrace  for  men  to  see  a  rich  child. 

I  feel  malicious  towards  the  little  sumptuous  princess 
who  has  just  appeared,  already  haughty  in  spite  of  her 
littleness;  and  I  am  stirred  with  pity  for  the  frail  victim 
whom  life  is  obliterating  with  all  its  might;  and  Marie, 
I  can  see,  gentle  Marie,  has  the  same  thoughts.  Who 
would  not  feel  them  in  face  of  this  twin  picture  of  child- 
hood which  a  passing  chance  has  brought  us,  of  this  one 
picture  torn  in  two? 

But  I  resist  this  emotion;  the  understanding  of  things 
must  be  based,  not  on  sentiment,  but  on  reason.  There 
must  be  justice,  not  charity.  Kindness  is  solitary.  Com- 
passion becomes  one  with  him  whom  we  pity;  it  allows 
us  to  fathom  him,  to  understand  him  alone  amongst 
the  rest;  but  it  blurs  and  befogs  the  laws  of  the  whole. 
I  must  set  off  with  a  clear  idea,  like  the  beam  of  a  light- 
house through  the  deformities  and  temptations  of  night. 

As  I  have  seen  equality,  I  am  seeing  inequality. 
Equality  in  truth;  inequality  in  fact.  We  observe  in 
man's  beginning  the  beginning  of  his  hurt;  the  root  of 
the  error  is  in  inheritance. 

Injustice,  artificial  and  groundless  authority,  royalty 
without  reason,  the  fantastic  freaks  of  fortune  which 
suddenly  put  crowns  on  heads!  It  is  there,  as  far  as  the 
monstrous  authority  of  the  dead,  that  we  must  draw  a 
straight  line  and  clean  the  darkness  away. 

The  transfer  of  the  riches  and  authority  of  the  dead, 
of  whatever  kind,  to  their  descendants,  is  not  in  accord 
with  reason  and  the  moral  law.  The  laws  of  might  and 
of  possessions  are  for  the  living  alone.  Every  man  must 
occupy  in  the  common  lot  a  place  which  he  owes  to  his 
work  and  not  to  luck. 


THE  CULT  261 

It  is  tradition!  But  that  is  no  reason,  on  the  other 
hand.  Tradition,  which  is  the  artificial  welding  of  the 
present  with  the  mass  of  the  past,  contrives  a  chain  be- 
tween them,  where  there  is  none.  It  is  from  tradition 
that  all  human  unhappiness  comes;  it  piles  de  facto, 
truths  on  to  the  true  truth;  it  overrides  justice;  it  takes 
all  freedom  away  from  reason  and  replaces  it  with  leg- 
endary things,  forbidding  reason  to  look  for  what  may  be 
inside  them. 

It  is  in  the  one  domain  of  science  and  its  application, 
and  sometimes  in  the  technique  of  the  arts,  that  experi- 
ence legitimately  takes  the  power  of  law,  and  that  ac- 
quired productions  have  a  right  to  accumulate.  But  to 
pass  from  this  treasuring  of  truth  to  the  dynastic  privi- 
lege of  ideas  or  powers  or  wealth — those  talismans — 
that  is  to  make  a  senseless  assimilation  which  kills  equal- 
ity in  the  bud  and  prevents  human  order  from  having 
a  basis.  Inheritance,  which  is  the  concrete  and  palpable 
form  of  tradition,  defends  itself  by  the  tradition  of  ori- 
gins and  of  beliefs — abuses  defended  by  abuses,  to  in- 
finity— and  it  is  by  reason  of  that  integral  succession 
that  here,  on  earth,  we  see  a  few  men  holding  the  multi- 
tude of  men  in  their  hands. 

I  say  all  this  to  Marie.  She  appears  to  be  more  struck 
by  the  vehemence  of  my  tone  than  by  the  obviousness 
of  what  I  say.  She  replies,  feebly,  "Yes,  indeed,"  and 
nods  her  head;  but  she  asks  me,  "But  the  moral  law  that 
you  talk  about,  isn't  it  tradition?" 

"No.  It  is  the  automatic  law  of  the  common  good. 
Every  time  that  finds  itself  at  stake,  it  re-creates  itself 
logically.  It  is  lucid;  it  shows  itself  every  time  right  to 
its  fountain-head.  Its  source  is  reason  itself,  and  equal- 
ity, which  is  the  same  thing  as  reason.  This  thing  is 
good  and  that  is  evil,  because  it  is  good  and  because  it 
is  evil,  and  not  because  of  what  has  been  said  or  writ- 
ten. It  is  the  opposite  of  traditional  bidding.  There 


262  LIGHT 

is  no  tradition  of  the  good.  Wealth  and  power  must 
be  earned,  not  taken  ready-made;  the  idea  of  what  is 
just  or  right  must  be  reconstructed  on  every  occasion 
and  not  be  taken  ready-made." 

Marie  listens  to  me.  She  ponders,  and  then  says,  "We 
shouldn't  work  if  we  hadn't  to  leave  what  we  have  to  our 
relations." 

But  immediately  she  answers  herself,  "No." 

She  produces  some  illustrations,  just  among  our  own 
surroundings.  So-and-so,  and  So-and-so.  The  bait  of 
gain  or  influence,  or  even  the  excitement  of  work  and 
production  suffice  for  people  to  do  themselves  harm. 
And  then,  too,  this  great  change  would  paralyze  the 
workers  less  than  the  old  way  paralyzes  the  prematurely 
enriched  who  pick  up  their  fortunes  on  the  ground — such 
as  he,  for  instance,  whom  we  used  to  see  go  by,  who  was 
drained  and  dead  at  twenty,  and  so  many  other  ignoble 
and  irrefutable  examples;  and  the  comedies  around  be- 
quests and  heirs  and  heiresses,  and  their  great  gamble 
with  affection  and  love — all  these  basenesses,  in  which 
custom  too  old  has  made  hearts  go  moldy. 

She  is  a  little  excited,  as  if  the  truth,  in  the  confusion 
of  these  critical  times,  were  beautiful  to  see — and  even 
pleasant  to  detain  with  words. 

All  the  same,  she  interrupts  herself,  and  says,  "They'll 
always  find  some  way  of  deceiving."  At  last  she  says, 

"Yes,  it  would  be  just,  perhaps;  but  it  won't  come." 
****** 

The  valley  has  suddenly  filled  with  tumult.  On  the 
road  which  goes  along  the  opposite  slope  a  regiment  is 
passing  on  its  way  to  the  barracks,  a  new  regiment,  with 
its  colors.  The  flag  goes  on  its  way  in  the  middle  of  a 
long-drawn  hurly-burly,  in  vague  shouting,  in  plumes  of 
dust  and  a  sparkling  mist  of  battle. 

We  have  both  mechanically  risen  on  the  edge  of  the 
road.  At  the  moment  when  the  flag  passes  before  us, 


THE  CULT  263 

the  habit  of  saluting  it  trembles  in  my  arms.  But,  just 
as  when  a  while  ago  the  bishop's  lifted  hand  did  not 
humble  me,  I  stay  motionless,  and  I  do  not  salute. 

No,  I  do  not  bow  in  presence  of  the  flag.  It  frightens 
me,  I  hate  it  and  I  accuse  it.  No,  there  is  no  beauty  in 
it;  it  is  not  the  emblem  of  this  corner  of  my  native  land, 
whose  fair  picture  it  disturbs  with  its  savage  stripes. 
It  is  the  screaming  signboard  of  the  glory  of  blows,  of 
militarism  and  war.  It  unfurls  over  the  living  surges 
of  humanity  a  sign  of  supremacy  and  command;  it  is  a 
weapon.  It  is  not  the  love  of  our  countries,  it  is  their 
sharp-edged  difference,  proud  and  aggressive,  which  we 
placard  in  the  face  of  the  others.  It  is  the  gaudy  eagle 
which  conquerors  and  their  devotees  see  flying  in  their 
dreams  from  steeple  to  steeple  in  foreign  lands.  The 
sacred  defense  of  the  homeland — well  and  good.  But  if 
there  was  no  offensive  war  there  would  be  defensive  war. 
Defensive  war  has  the  same  infamous  cause  as  the  of- 
fensive war  which  provoked  it;  why  do  we  not  confess 
it?  We  persist,  through  blindness  or  duplicity,  in  cut- 
ting the  question  in  two,  as  if  it  were  too  great.  All 
fallacies  are  possible  when  one  speculates  on  morsels  of 
truth.  But  Earth  only  bears  one  single  sort  of  inhabi- 
tant. 

It  is  not  enough  to  put  something  on  the  end  of  a 
stick  in  public  places,  to  shake  it  on  the  tops  of  build- 
ings and  in  the  faces  of  public  assemblies,  and  say,  "It 
is  decided  that  this  is  the  loftiest  of  all  symbols;  it  is 
decided  that  he  who  will  not  bend  the  knee  before  it 
shall  be  accursed."  It  is  the  duty  of  human  intelligence 
to  examine  if  that  symbolism  is  not  fetish-worship. 

As  for  me,  I  remember  it  was  said  that  logic  has  ter- 
rible chains  and  that  all  hold  together — the  throne,  the 
altar,  the  sword  and  the  flag.  And  I  have  read,  in  the 
unchaining  and  the  chaining-up  of  war,  that  these  are  the 
instruments  of  the  cult  of  human  sacrifices. 


264  LIGHT 

Marie  has  sat  down  again,  and  I  strolled  away  a  little, 
musing. 

I  recall  the  silhouette  of  Adjutant  Marcassin,  and 
him  whom  I  quoted  a  moment  ago — the  sincere  hero, 
barren  and  dogmatic,  with  his  furious  faith.  I  seem  to- 
be  asking  him,  "Do  you  believe  in  beauty,  in  progress?" 
He  does  not  know,  so  he  replies,  "No!  I  only  believe  in 
the  glory  of  the  French  name!"  "Do  you  believe  in  re- 
spect for  life,  in  the  dignity  of  labor,  in  the  holiness  of 
happiness?"  "No."  "Do  you  believe  in  truth,  in  jus- 
tice?" "No,  I  only  believe  in  the  glory  of  the  French 
name." 

The  idea  of  motherland — I  have  never  dared  to  look 
it  in  the  face.  I  stand  still  in  my  walk  and  in  my  medita- 
tion. What,  that  also?  But  my  reason  is  as  honest 
as  my  heart,  and  keeps  me  going  forward.  Yes,  that 
also. 

In  the  friendly  solitude  of  these  familiar  spots  on 
the  top  of  this  hill,  at  these  cross-roads  where  the  lane 
has  led  me  like  an  unending  companion,  not  far  from 
the  place  where  the  gentle  slope  waits  for  you  to  entice 
you,  I  quake  to  hear  myself  think  and  blaspheme.  What, 
that  notion  of  Motherland  also,  which  has  so  often 
thrilled  me  with  gladness  and  enthusiasm,  as  but  lately 
that  of  God  did? 

But  it  is  in  Motherland's  name,  as  once  in  the  name 
of  God  only,  that  humanity  robs  itself  and  tries  to  choke 
itself  with  its  own  hands,  as  it  will  soon  succeed  in  doing. 
It  is  because  of  motherland  that  the  big  countries,  more 
rich  in  blood,  have  overcome  the  little  ones.  It  is  be- 
cause of  motherland  that  the  overlord  of  German  nation- 
alism attacked  France  and  let  civil  war  loose  among  the 
people  of  the  world.  The  question  must  be  placed  there 
where  it  is,  that  is  to  say,  everywhere  at  once.  One 
must  see  face  to  face,  in  one  glance,  all  those  immense, 
distinct  unities  which  each  shout  "II" 


THE  CULT  265 

The  idea  of  motherland  is  not  a  false  idea,  but  it  is  a 
little  idea,  and  one  which  must  remain  little. 

There  is  only  one  common  good.  There  is  only  one 
moral  duty,  only  one  truth,  and  every  man  is  the  shining 
recipient  and  guardian  of  it.  The  present  understand- 
ing of  the  idea  of  motherland  divides  all  these  great 
ideas,  cuts  them  into  pieces,  specializes  them  within  im- 
penetrable circles.  We  meet  as  many  national  truths 
as  we  do  nations,  and  as  many  national  duties,  and  as 
many  national  interests  and  rights — and  they  are  an- 
tagonistic to  each  other.  Each  country  is  separated  from 
the  next  by  such  walls — moral  frontiers,  material  fron- 
tiers, commercial  frontiers — that  you  are  imprisoned 
when  you  find  yourself  on  either  side  of  them.  We  hear 
talk  of  sanctified  selfishness,  of  the  adorable  expansion 
of  one  race  across  the  others,  of  noble  hatreds  and 
glorious  conquests,  and  we  see  these  ideals  trying  to 
take  shape  on  all  hands.  This  capricious  multiplication 
of  what  ought  to  remain  one  leads  the  whole  of  civiliza- 
tion into  a  malignant  and  thorough  absurdity.  The 
words  "justice"  and  "right"  are  too  great  in  stature  to 
be  shut  up  in  proper  nouns,  any  more  than  Providence 
can  be,  which  every  royalty  would  fain  take  to  itself. 

National  aspirations — confessed  or  unconfessable — 
are  contradictory  among  themselves.  All  populations 
which  are  narrowly  confined  and  elbow  each  other  in  the 
world  are  full  of  dreams  vaster  than  each  of  them.  The 
nations'  territorial  ambitions  overlap  each  other  on  the 
map  of  the  universe;  economic  and  financial  ambitions 
cancel  each  other  mathematically.  Then  in  the  mass 
they  are  unrealizable. 

And  since  there  is  no  sort  of  higher  control  over  this 
scuffle  of  truths  which  are  not  admissible,  each  nation 
realizes  its  own  by  all  possible  means,  by  all  the  fidelity 
and  anger  and  brute  force  she  can  get  out  of  herself. 
By  the  help  of  this  state  of  world-wide  anarchy,  the  lazy 


266  LIGHT 

and  slight  distinction  between  patriotism,  imperialism 
and  militarism  is  violated,  trampled,  and  broken  through 
all  along  the  line,  and  it  cannot  be  otherwise.  The 
living  universe  cannot  help  becoming  an  organization  of 
armed  rivalry.  And  there  cannot  fail  to  result  from  it 
the  everlasting  succession  of  evils,  without  any  hope  of 
abiding  spoils,  for  there  is  no  instance  of  conquerors  who 
have  long  enjoyed  immunity,  and  history  reveals  a  sort 
of  balance  of  injustices  and  of  the  fatal  alternation  of 
predominance.  In  all  quarters  the  hope  of  victory  brings 
in  the  hope  of  war.  It  is  conflict  clinging  to  conflict,  and 
the  recurrent  murdering  of  murders. 

The  kings  1  We  always  find  the  kings  again  when  we 
examine  popular  unhappiness  right  to  the  end!  This 
hypertrophy  of  the  national  unities  is  the  doing  of  their 
leaders.  It  is  the  masters,  the  ruling  aristocracies — em- 
blazoned or  capitalist — who  have  created  and  maintained 
for  centuries  all  the  pompous  and  sacred  raiment,  sanc- 
timonious or  fanatical,  in  which  national  separation  is 
clothed,  along  with  the  fable  of  national  interests — those 
enemies  of  the  multitudes.  The  primeval  centralization 
of  individuals  isolated  in  the  inhabited  spaces  was  in 
agreement  with  the  moral  law;  it  was  the  precise  em- 
bodiment of  progress;  it  was  of  benefit  to  all  But  the 
decreed  division,  peremptory  and  stern,  which  was  inter- 
posed in  that  centralization — that  is  the  doom  of  man, 
although  it  is  necessary  to  the  classes  who  command. 
These  boundaries,  these  clean  cuts,  permit  the  stakes  of 
commercial  conflict  and  of  war;  that  is  to  say,  the  chance 
of  big  feats  of  glory  and  of  huge  speculations.  That 
is  the  vital  principle  of  Empire.  If  all  interests  suddenly 
became  again  the  individual  interests  of  men,  and  the 
moral  law  resumed  its  full  and  spacious  action  on  the 
basis  of  equality,  if  human  solidarity  were  world-wide 
and  complete,  it  would  no  longer  lend  itself  to  certain 
sudden  and  partial  increases  which  are  never  to  the  gen- 


THE  CULT  267 

eral  advantage,  but  may  be  to  the  advantage  of  a  few 
fleeting  profiteers.  That  is  why  the  conscious  forces 
which  have  hitherto  directed  the  old  world's  destiny  will 
always  use  all  possible  means  to  break  up  human  har- 
mony into  fragments.  Authority  holds  fast  to  all  its 
national  bases. 

The  insensate  system  of  national  blocks  in  sinister  dis- 
persal, devouring  or  devoured,  has  its  apostles  and  ad- 
vocates. But  the  theorists,  the  men  of  spurious  knowl- 
edge, will  in  vain  have  heaped  up  their  farrago  of  quib- 
bles and  arguments,  their  fallacies  drawn  from  so-called 
precedents  or  from  so-called  economic  and  ethnic  neces- 
sity; for  the  simple,  brutal  and  magnificent  cry  of  life 
renders  useless  the  efforts  they  make  to  galvanize  and 
erect  doctrines  which  cannot  stand  alone.  The  disap- 
proval which  attaches  in  our  time  to  the  word  "interna- 
tionalism" proves  together  the  silliness  and  meanness  of 
public  opinion.  Humanity  is  the  living  name  of  truth. 
Men  are  like  each  other  as  trees!  They  who  rule  well, 
rule  by  force  and  deceit;  but  by  reason,  never. 

The  national  group  is  a  collectivity  within  the  bosom 
of  the  chief  one.  It  is  one  group  like  any  other;  it  is 
like  him  who  knots  himself  to  himself  under  the  wing 
of  a  roof,  or  under  the  wider  wing  of  the  sky  that  dyes 
a  landscape  blue.  It  is  not  the  definite,  absolute,  mysti- 
cal group  into  which  they  would  fain  transform  it,  with 
sorcery  of  words  and  ideas,  which  they  have  armored 
with  oppressive  rules.  Everywhere  man's  poor  hope 
of  salvation  on  earth  is  merely  to  attain,  at  the  end  of 
his  life,  this:  To  live  one's  life  freely,  where  one  wants 
to  live  it;  to  love,  to  last,  to  produce  in  the  chosen  en- 
vironment— just  as  the  people  of  the  ancient  Provinces- 
have  lost,  along  with  their  separate  leaders,  their  sepa- 
rate traditions  of  covetousness  and  reciprocal  robbery. 

If,  from  the  idea  of  motherland,  you  take  away  covet- 
ousness, hatred,  envy  and  vainglory;  if  you  take  away 


268  LIGHT 

from  it  the  desire  for  predominance  by  violence,  what  is 
there  left  of  it? 

It  is  not  an  individual  unity  of  laws;  for  just  laws 
have  no  colors.  It  is  not  a  solidarity  of  interests,  for 
there  are  no  material  national  interests — or  they  are  not 
honest.  It  is  not  a  unity  of  race;  for  the  map  of  the 
countries  is  not  the  map  of  the  races.  What  is  there  left? 

There  is  left  a  restricted  communion,  deep  and  delight- 
ful ;  the  affectionate  and  affecting  attraction  in  the  charm 
of  a  language — there  is  hardly  more  in  the  universe  be- 
sides its  languages  which  are  foreigners — there  is  left  a 
personal  and  delicate  preference  for  certain  forms  of 
landscape,  of  monuments,  of  talent.  And  even  this  ra- 
diance has  its  limits.  The  cult  of  the  masterpieces  of 
art  and  thought  is  the  only  impulse  of  the  soul  which, 
by  general  consent,  has  always  soared  above  patriotic 
littlenesses. 

"But,"  the  official  voices  trumpet,  "there  is  another 
magic  formula — the  great  common  Past  of  every  na- 
tion." 

Yes,  there  is  the  Past.  That  long  Golgotha  of  op- 
pressed peoples;  the  Law  of  the  Strong,  changing  life's 
humble  festival  into  useless  and  recurring  hecatombs; 
the  chronology  of  that  crushing  of  lives  and  ideas  which 
always  tortured  or  executed  the  innovators;  that  Past 
in  which  sovereigns  settled  their  personal  affairs  of  al- 
liances, ruptures,  dowries  and  inheritance  with  the  terri- 
tory and  blood  which  they  owned;  in  which  each  and 
every  country  was  so  squandered — it  is  common  to  all. 
That  Past  in  which  the  small  attainments  of  moral 
progress,  of  well-being  and  unity  (so  far  as  they  were 
not  solely  semblances)  only  crystallized  with  despairing 
tardiness,  with  periods  of  doleful  stagnation  and  fright- 
ful alteration  along  the  channels  of  barbarism  and  force; 
that  Past  of  somber  shame,  that  Past  of  error  and  disease 
which  every  old  nation  has  survived,  which  we  should 


THfe  CULT  269 

learn  by  heart  that  we  may  hate  it — yes,  that  Past  is 
common  to  all,  like  misery,  shame  and  pain.  Blessed 
are  the  new  nations,  for  they  have  no  remorse! 

And  the  blessings  of  the  past — the  splendor  of  the 
French  Revolution,  the  huge  gifts  of  the  navigators  who 
brought  new  worlds  to  the  old  one,  and  the  miraculous 
exception  of  scientific  discoveries,  which  by  a  second 
miracle  were  not  smothered  in  their  youth — are  they  not 
also  common  to  all,  like  the  undying  beauty  of  the  ruins 
of  the  Parthenon,  Shakespeare's  lightning  and  Bee- 
thoven's raptures,  and  like  love,  and  like  joy? 

The  universal  problem  into  which  modern  life,  as 
well  as  past  life,  rushes  and  embroils  and  rends  itself, 
can  only  be  dispersed  by  a  universal  means  which  re- 
duces each  nation  to  what  it  is  in  truth;  which  strips 
from  them  all  the  ideal  of  supremacy  stolen  by  each 
of  them  from  the  great  human  ideal;  a  means  which, 
raising  the  human  ideal  definitely  beyond  the  reach  of 
all  those  immoderate  emotions,  which  shout  together 
"Mine  is  the  only  point  of  view,"  gives  it  at  last  its 
divine  unity.  Let  us  keep  the  love  of  the  motherland 
in  our  hearts,  but  let  us  dethrone  the  conception  of 
Motherland. 

I  will  say  what  there  is  to  say:  I  place  the  Republic 
before  France.  France  is  ourselves.  The  Republic  is 
ourselves  and  the  others.  The  general  welfare  must  be 
put  much  higher  than  national  welfare,  because  it  is 
much  higher.  But  if  it  is  venturesome  to  assert,  as  they 
have  so  much  and  so  indiscriminately  done,  that  such 
national  interest  is  in  accord  with  the  general  interest, 
then  the  converse  is  obvious;  and  that  is  illuminating, 
momentous  and  decisive — the  good  of  all  includes  the 
good  of  each;  France  can  be  prosperous  even  if  the 
world  is  not,  but  the  world  cannot  be  prosperous  and 
France  not.  The  moving  argument  reestablishes,  with 
positive  and  crowding  certainties  which  touch  us  softly 


270  LIGHT 

on  all  sides,  that  distracting  stake  which  Pascal  tried  to 
place,  like  a  lever  in  the  void — "On  one  side  I  lose;  on 
the  other  I  have  all  to  gain." 

Amid  the  beauty  of  these  dear  spots  on  Chestnut  Hill, 
in  the  heart  of  these  four  crossing  ways,  I  have  seen  new 
things;  not  that  any  new  things  have  happened,  but 
because  I  have  opened  my  eyes. 

I  am  rewarded,  I  the  lowest,  for  being  the  only  one 
of  all  to  follow  up  error  to  the  end,  right  into  its  holy 
places;  for  I  am  at  last  disentangling  all  the  simplicity 
and  truth  of  the  great  horizons.  The  revelation  still 
seems  to  me  so  terrible  that  the  silence  of  men,  heaped 
under  the  roofs  down  there  at  my  feet,  seizes  and  threat- 
ens me.  And  if  I  am  but  timidly  formulating  it  within 
myself,  that  is  because  each  of  us  has  lived  in  reality 
more  than  his  life,  and  because  my  training  has  filled 
me,  like  the  rest,  with  centuries  of  shadow,  of  humilia- 
tion and  captivity. 

It  is  establishing  itself  cautiously;  but  it  is  the  truth, 
and  there  are  moments  when  logic  seizes  you  in  its  god- 
like whirlwind.  In  this  disordered  world  where  the 
weakness  of  a  few  oppresses  the  strength  of  all;  since 
ever  the  religion  of  the  God  of  Battles  and  of  Resigna- 
tion has  not  sufficed  by  itself  to  consecrate  inequality. 
Tradition  reigns,  the  gospel  of  the  blind  adoration  of 
what  was  and  what  is — God  without  a  head.  Man's 
destiny  is  eternally  blockaded  by  two  forms  of  tradition; 
in  time,  by  hereditary  succession;  in  space,  by  frontiers, 
and  thus  it  is  crushed  and  annihilated  in  detail.  It  is 
the  truth.  I  am  certain  of  it,  for  I  am  touching  it. 

But  I  do  not  know  what  will  become  of  us.  All  the 
blood  poured  out,  all  the  words  poured  out,  to  impose 
a  sham  ideal  on  our  bodies  and  souls,  will  they  suffice 
for  a  long  time  yet  to  separate  and  isolate  humanity  in 
absurdity  made  real?  History  is  a  Bible  of  errors.  I 


THE  CULT  271 

have  not  only  seen  blessings  falling  from  on  high  on  all 
which  supported  evil,  and  curses  on  all  which  could  heal 
it;  I  have  seen,  here  below,  the  keepers  of  the  moral  law 
hunted  and  derided,  from  little  Termite,  lost  like  a  rat 
in  unfolding  battle,  back  to  Jesus  Christ. 

We  go  away.     For  the  first  time  since  I  came  back 
I  no  longer  lean  on  Marie.    It  is  she  who  leans  on  me. 
****** 


CHAPTER  XXI 
NO! 

THE  opening  of  our  War  Museum,  which  was  the 
conspicuous  event  of  the  following  days,  filled  Crillon 
with  delight. 

It  was  a  wooden  building,  gay  with  flags,  which  the 
municipality  had  erected;  and  Room  I  was  occupied  by 
an  exhibition  of  paintings  and  drawings  by  amateurs  in 
high  society,  all  war  subjects.  Many  of  them  were  sent 
down  from  Paris. 

Crillon,  officially  got  up  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  has 
bought  the  catalogue  (which  is  sold  for  the  benefit  of 
the  wounded)  and  he  is  struck  with  wonder  by  the  list 
of  exhibitors.  He  talks  of  titles,  of  coats  of  arms,  of 
crowns;  he  seeks  enlightenment  in  matters  of  aristo- 
cratic hierarchy.  Once,  as  he  stands  before  the  row  of 
frames,  he  asks: 

"I  say,  now,  which  has  got  most  talent  in  France — a 
princess  or  a  duchess?" 

He  is  quite  affected  by  these  things,  and  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  lower  edges  of  the  pictures  he  deciphers  the 
signatures. 

In  the  room  which  follows  this  shining  exhibition  of 
autographs  there  is  a  crush. 

On  trestles  disposed  around  the  wall  trophies  are 
arranged — peaked  helmets,  knapsacks  covered  with 
tawny  hair,  ruins  of  shells. 

The  complete  uniform  of  a  German  infantryman  has 
been  built  up  with  items  from  different  sources,  some  of 
them  stained. 

272; 


NO!  273 

In  this  room  there  was  a  group  of  convalescents  from 
the  overflow  hospital  of  Viviers.  These  soldiers  looked, 
and  hardly  spoke.  Several  shrugged  their  shoulders. 
But  one  of  them  growled  in  front  of  the  German  phan- 
tom, "Ah,  the  swine!" 

With  a  view  to  propaganda,  they  have  framed  a  letter 
from  a  woman  found  in  a  slain  enemy's  pocket.  A 
translation  is  posted  up  as  well,  and  they  have  under- 
lined the  passage  in  which  the  woman  says,  "When  is 
this  cursed  war  going  to  end?"  and  in  which  she  laments 
the  increasing  cost  of  little  Johann's  keep.  At  the  foot 
of  the  page,  the  woman  has  depicted,  in  a  sentimental 
diagram,  the  increasing  love  that  she  feels  for  her  man. 

How  simple  and  obvious  the  evidence  is!  No  reason- 
able person  can  dispute  that  the  being  whose  private 
life  is  here  thrown  to  the  winds  and  who  poured  out  his 
sweat  and  his  blood  in  one  of  these  rags  was  not  re- 
sponsible for  having  held  a  rifle,  for  having  aimed  it. 
In  the  presence  of  these  ruins  I  see  with  monotonous  and 
implacable  obstinacy  that  the  attacking  multitude  is  as 
innocent  as  the  defending  multitude. 

On  a  little  red-covered  table  by  the  side  of  a  little 
tacked  label  which  says,  "Cold  Steel:  May  9,"  there  is 
a  twisted  French  bayonet — a  bayonet,  the  flesh  weapon, 
which  has  been  twisted! 

"Oh,  it's  fine!"  says  a  young  girl  from  the  castle. 

"It  isn't  Fritz  and  Jerry,  old  chap,  that  bends 
bayonets!" 

"No  doubt  about  it,  we're  the  first  soldiers  in  the 
world,"  says  Rampaille. 

"We've  set  a  beautiful  example  to  the  world,"  says  a 
sprightly  Member  of  the  Upper  House  to  all  those 
present. 

Excitement  grows  around  that  bayonet.  The  young 
girl,  who  is  beautiful  and  expansive,  cannot  tear  herself 
away  from  it.  At  last  she  touches  it  with  her  finger, 


274  LIGHT 

and  shudders.  She  does  not  disguise  her  pleasant  emo- 
tion:— 

"I  confess  I'm  a  patriot!  I'm  more  than  that — I'm  a 
patriot  and  a  militarist!" 

All  heads  around  her  are  nodded  in  approval.  That 
kind  of  talk  never  seems  intemperate,  for  it  touches  on 
sacred  things. 

And  I,  I  see — in  the  night  which  falls  for  a  moment, 
amid  the  tempest  of  dying  men  which  is  subsiding  on 
the  ground — I  see  a  monster  in  the  form  of  a  man  and 
in  the  form  of  a  vulture,  who,  with  the  death-rattle  in 
his  throat,  holds  towards  that  young  girl  the  horrible 
head  that  is  scalped  with  a  coronet,  and  says  to  her: 
"You  do  not  know  me,  and  you  do  not  know,  but  you 
are  like  me!" 

The  young  girl's  living  laugh,  as  she  goes  off  with  a 
young  officer,  recalls  me  to  events. 

All  those  who  come  after  each  other  to  the  bayonet 
speak  in  the  same  way,  and  have  the  same  proud  eyes. 

"They're  not  stronger  than  us,  let  me  tell  you!  It's 
us  that's  the  strongest!" 

"Our  allies  are  very  good,  but  it's  lucky  for  them 
we're  there  on  the  job." 

"Ah,  la,  lal" 

"Why,  yes,  there's  only  the  French  for  it.  All  the 
world  admires  them.  Only  we're  always  running  our- 
selves down." 

When  you  see  that  fever,  that  spectacle  of  intoxica- 
tion, these  people  who  seize  the  slightest  chance  to  glorify 
their  country's  physical  force  and  the  hardness  of  its 
fists,  you  hear  echoing  the  words  of  the  orators  and  the 
official  politicians: — 

"There  is  only  in  our  hearts  the  condemnation  of 
barbarism  and  the  love  of  humanity." 

And  you  ask  yourself  if  there  is  a  single  public  opinion 


NO!  275 

in  the  world  which  is  capable  of  bearing  victory  with 
dignity. 

I  stand  aloof.  I  am  a  blot,  like  a  bad  prophet.  I 
bear  this  declaration,  which  bows  me  like  an  infernal 
burden:  It  is  only  defeat  which  can  open  millions  of 
eyes! 

I  hear  some  one  say,  with  detestation,  "German  mili- 
tarism  " 

That  is  the  final  argument,  that  is  the  formula.  Yes, 
German  militarism  is  hateful,  and  must  disappear;  all 
the  world  is  agreed  about  that — the  jack-boots  of  the 
Junkers,  of  the  Crown  Princes,  of  the  Kaiser,  and  theif 
courts  of  intellectuals  and  business  men,  and  the  pan- 
Germanism  which  would  dye  Europe  black  and  red,  and 
the  half-bestial  servility  of  the  German  people.  Ger- 
many is  the  fiercest  fortress  of  militarism.  Yes,  every- 
body is  agreed  about  that. 

But  they  who  govern  Thought  take  unfair  advantage 
of  that  agreement,  for  they  know  well  that  when  the 
simple  folk  have  said,  "German  militarism,"  they  have 
said  all.  They  stop  there.  They  amalgamate  the  two 
words  and  confuse  militarism  with  Germany — once  Ger- 
many is  thrown  down  there's  no  more  to  say.  In  that 
way,  they  attach  lies  to  truth,  and  prevent  us  from  see- 
ing that  militarism  is  in  reality  everywhere,  more  or  less 
hypocritical  and  unconscious,  but  ready  to  seize  every- 
thing if  it  can.  They  force  opinion  to  add,  "It  is  a  crime 
to  think  of  anything  but  beating  the  German  enemy." 
But  the  right-minded  man  must  answer  that  it  is  a  crime 
to  think  only  of  that,  for  the  enemy  is  militarism,  and 
not  Germany.  I  know;  I  will  no  longer  let  myself  be 
caught  by  words  which  they  hide  one  behind  another. 

The  Liberal  Member  of  the  Upper  House  says,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard,  that  the  people  have  behaved  very 
well,  for,  after  all,  they  have  found  the  cost,  and  they 
must  be  given  credit  for  their  good  conduct. 


276  LIGHT 

Another  personage  in  the  same  group,  an  Army  con- 
tractor, spoke  of  "the  good  chaps  in  the  trenches,"  and 
he  added,  in  a  lower  voice,  "As  long  as  they're  protect- 
ing us,  we're  all  right." 

"We  shall  reward  them  when  they  come  back,"  re- 
plied an  old  lady.  "We  shall  give  them  glory,  we  shall 
make  their  leaders  into  Marshals,  and  they'll  have  cele- 
brations, and  Kings  will  be  there." 

"And  there  are  some  who  won't  come  back." 

We  see  several  new  recruits  of  the  1916  class  who  will 
soon  be  sent  to  the  front. 

"They're  pretty  boys,"  says  the  Member  of  the  Upper 
House,  good-naturedly;  "but  they're  still  a  bit  pale- 
faced.  We  must  fatten  'em  up,  we  must  fatten  'em  up ! " 

An  official  of  the  Ministry  of  War  goes  up  to  the  Mem- 
ber of  the  Upper  House,  and  says: 

"The  science  of  military  preparedness  is  still  in  its 
beginnings.  We're  getting  clear  for  it  hastily,  but  it  is 
an  organization  which  requires  a  long  time  and  which 
can  only  have  full  effect  in  time  of  peace.  Later,  we 
shall  take  them  from  childhood;  we  shall  make  good 
sound  soldiers  of  them,  and  of  good  health,  morally  as 
well  as  physically." 

Then  the  band  plays;  it  is  closing  time,  and  there  is 
the  passion  of  a  military  march.  A  woman  cries  that 
it  is  like  drinking  champagne  to  hear  it. 

The  visitors  have  gone  away.  I  linger  to  look  at  the 
beflagged  front  of  the  War  Museum,  while  night  is  fall- 
ing. It  is  the  Temple.  It  is  joined  to  the  Church,  and 
resembles  it.  My  thoughts  go  to  those  crosses  which 
weigh  down,  from  the  pinnacles  of  churches,  the  heads 
of  the  living,  join  their  two  hands  together,  and  close 
their  eyes;  those  crosses  which  squat  upon  the  graves  in 
the  cemeteries  at  the  front.  It  is  because  of  all  these 
temples  that  in  the  future  the  sleep-walking  nations  will 
begin  again  to  go  through  the  immense  and  mournful 


NO!  271 

tragedy  of  obedience.  It  is  because  of  these  temples 
that  financial  and  industrial  tyranny,  Imperial  and 
Royal  tyranny — of  which  all  they  whom  I  meet  on  my 
way  are  the  accomplices  or  the  puppets — will  to-morrow 
begin  again  to  wax  fat  on  the  fanaticism  of  the  civilian, 
on  the  weariness  of  those  who  have  come  back,  on  the 
silence  of  the  dead.  (When  the  armies  file  through  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe,  who  is  there  will  see — and  yet  they 
will  be  plainly  visible — that  six  thousand  miles  of  French 
coffins  are  also  passing  through!)  And  the  flag  will 
continue  to  float  over  its  prey,  that  flag  stuck  into  the 
shadowy  front  of  the  War  Museum,  that  flag  so  twisted 
by  the  wind's  breath  that  sometimes  it  takes  the  shape 
of  a  cross,  and  sometimes  of  a  scythe! 

Judgment  is  passed  in  that  case.  But  the  vision  of 
the  future  agitates  me  with  a  sort  of  despair  and  with  a 
holy  thrill  of  anger. 

Ah,  there  are  cloudy  moments  when  one  asks  himself 
if  men  do  not  deserve  all  the  disasters  into  which  they 
rush!  No — I  recover  myself — they  do  not  deserve 
them.  But  ive,  instead  of  saying  "I  wish"  must  say 
"I  will."  And  what  we  will,  we  must  will  to  build  it, 
with  order,  with  method,  beginning  at  the  beginning, 
when  once  we  have  been  as  far  as  that  beginning.  We 
must  not  only  open  our  eyes,  but  our  arms,  our  wings. 

This  isolated  wooden  building,  with  its  back  against 
a  wood-pile,  and  nobody  in  it 

Burn  it?    Destroy  it?    I  thought  of  doing  it. 

To  cast  that  light  in  the  face  of  that  moving  night, 
which  was  crawling  and  trampling  there  in  the  torch- 
light, which  had  gone  to  plunge  into  the  town  and  grow 
darker  among  the  dungeon-cells  of  the  bedchambers, 
there  to  hatch  more  forgetfulness  in  the  gloom,  more  evil 
and  misery,  or  to  breed  unavailing  generations  who  will 
be  abortive  at  the  age  of  twenty! 


278  LIGHT 

The  desire  to  do  it  gripped  my  body  for  a  moment. 
I  fell  back,  and  I  went  away,  like  the  others. 

It  seems  to  me  that,  in  not  doing  it,  I  did  an  evil 
deed. 

For  if  the  men  who  are  to  come  free  themselves  in- 
stead of  sinking  in  the  quicksands,  if  they  consider,  with 
lucidity  and  with  the  epic  pity  it  deserves,  this  age 
through  which  I  go  drowning,  they  would  perhaps  have 
thanked  me,  even  me!  From  those  who  will  not  see  or 
know  me,  but  in  whom  for  this  sudden  moment  I  want 
to  hope,  I  beg  pardon  for  not  doing  it. 

****** 

In  a  corner  where  the  neglected  land  is  turning  into  a 
desert,  and  which  lies  across  my  way  home,  some  chil- 
dren are  throwing  stones  at  a  mirror  which  they  have 
placed  a  few  steps  away  as  a  target.  They  jostle  each 
other,  shouting  noisily;  each  of  them  wants  the  glory  of 
being  the  first  to  break  it.  I  see  the  mirror  again  that 
I  broke  with  a  brick  at  Buzancy,  because  it  seemed  to 
stand  upright  like  a  living  being!  Next,  when  the  frag- 
ment of  solid  light  is  shattered  into  crumbs,  they  pursue 
with  stones  an  old  dog,  whose  wounded  foot  trails  like 
his  tail.  No  one  wants  it  any  more;  it  is  ready  to  be 
finished  off,  and  the  urchins  are  improving  the  occasion. 
Limping,  his  pot-hanger  spine  all  arched,  the  animal 
hurries  slowly,  and  tries  vainly  to  go  faster  than  the 
pebbles. 

The  child  is  only  a  confused  handful  of  confused  and 
superficial  propensities.  Our  deep  instincts — there  they 
are. 

I  scatter  the  children,  and  they  withdraw  into  the 
shadows  unwillingly,  and  look  at  me  with  malice.  I  am 
distressed  by  this  maliciousness,  which  is  born  full- 
grown.  I  am  distressed  also  by  this  old  dog's  lot.  They 
would  not  understand  me  if  I  acknowledged  that  dis- 
tress; they  would  say,  "And  you  who've  seen  so  many 


NO!  279 

wounded  and  dead!"  All  the  same,  there  is  a  supreme 
respect  for  life.  I  am  not  slighting  intellect;  but  life  is 
common  to  us  along  with  poorer  living  things  than  our- 
selves. He  who  kills  an  animal,  however  lowly  it  may 
be,  unless  there  is  necessity,  is  an  assassin. 

At  the  crossing  I  meet  Louise  Verte,  wandering  about. 
She  has  gone  crazy.  She  continues  to  accost  men,  but 
they  do  not  even  know  what  she  begs  for.  She  rambles, 
in  the  streets,  and  in  her  hovel,  and  on  the  pallet  where 
she  is  crucified  by  drunkards.  She  is  surrounded  by 
general  loathing.  "That  a  woman?"  says  a  virtuous 
man  who  is  going  by,  "that  dirty  old  strumpet?  A 
woman?  A  sewer,  yes."  She  is  harmless.  In  a  feeble, 
peaceful  voice,  which  seems  to  live  in  some  supernatural 
region,  very  far  from  us,  she  says  to  me: 

"I  am  the  queen." 

Immediately  and  strangely  she  adds,  as  though 
troubled  by  some  foreboding: 

"Don't  take  my  illusion  away  from  me." 

I  was  on  the  point  of  answering  her,  but  I  check  my- 
self, and  just  say,  "Yes,"  as  one  throws  a  copper,  and 

she  goes  away  happy. 

*  *    '        *  *  *  * 

My  respect  for  life  is  so  strong  that  I  feel  pity  for  a 
fly  which  I  have  killed.  Observing  the  tiny  corpse  at 
the  gigantic  height  of  my  eyes,  I  cannot  help  thinking 
how  well  made  that  organized  speck  of  dust  is,  whose 
wings  are  little  more  than  two  drops  of  space,  whose 
eye  has  four  thousand  facets;  and  that  fly  occupies  my 

thought  for  a  moment,  which  is  a  long  time  for  it. 
****** 


CHAPTER  XXII 

LIGHT 

I  AM  leaning  this  evening  out  of  the  open  window.  As 
in  bygone  nights,  I  am  watching  the  dark  pictures,  in- 
visible at  first,  taking  shape — the  steeple  towering  out 
of  the  hollow,  and  broadly  lighted  against  the  hill;  the 
castle,  that  rich  crown  of  masonry;  and  then  the  mas- 
sive sloping  black  of  the  chimney-peopled  roofs,  which 
are  sharply  outlined  against  the  paler  black  of  space, 
and  some  milky,  watching  windows.  The  eye  is  lost  hi 
all  directions  among  the  desolation  where  the  multitude 
of  men  and  women  are  hiding,  as  always  and  as  every- 
where. 

That  is  what  is.  Who  will  say,  "That  is  what  must 
be!" 

I  have  searched,  I  have  indistinctly  seen,  I  have 
doubted.  Now,  I  hope. 

I  do  not  regret  my  youth  and  its  beliefs.  Up  to  now, 
I  have  wasted  my  time  to  live.  Youth  is  the  true  force, 
but  it  is  too  rarely  lucid.  Sometimes  it  has  a  triumphant 
liking  for  what  is  now,  and  the  pugnacious  broadside  of 
paradox  may  please  it.  But  there  is  a  degree  in  inno- 
vation which  they  who  have  not  lived  very  much  cannot 
attain.  And  yet  who  knows  if  the  stern  greatness  of 
present  events  will  not  have  educated  and  aged  the  gen- 
eration which  to-day  forms  humanity's  effective  frontier? 
Whatever  our  hope  may  be,  if  we  did  not  place  it  in 
youth,  where  should  we  place  it? 

Who  will  speak — see,  and  then  speak?  To  speak  is 
280 


LIGHT  281 

the  same  thing  as  to  see,  but  it  is  more.  Speech  per- 
petuates vision.  We  carry  no  light;  we  are  things  of 
shadow,  for  night  closes  our  eyes,  and  we  put  out  our 
hands  to  find  our  way  when  the  light  is  gone;  we  only 
shine  in  speech;  truth  is  made  by  the  mouths  of  men. 
The  wind  srf  words — what  is  it?  It  is  our  breath — not 
all  words,  for  there  are  artificial  and  copied  ones  which 
are  not  part  of  the  speaker;  but  the  profound  words,  the 
cries.  In  the  human  cry  you  feel  the  effort  of  the  spring. 
The  cry  comes  out  of  us,  it  is  as  living  as  a  child.  The 
cry  goes  on,  and  makes  the  appeal  of  truth  wherever  it 
may  be,  the  cry  gathers  cries. 

There  is  a  voice,  a  low  and  untiring  voice,  which  helps 
those  who  do  not  and  will  not  see  themselves,  a  voice 
which  brings  them  together,  Books — the  book  we  choose, 
the  favorite,  the  book  you  open,  which  was  waiting  for 
you! 

Formerly,  I  hardly  knew  any  books.  Now,  I  love  what 
they  do.  I  have  brought  together  as  many  as  I  could. 
There  they  are,  on  the  shelves,  with  their  immense  titles, 
their  regular,  profound  contents;  they  are  there,  all 
around  me,  arranged  like  houses. 

Who  will  tell  the  truth?  But  it  is  not  enough  to  say 
things  in  order  to  let  them  be  seen. 

Just  now,  pursued  by  the  idea  of  my  temptation  at 
the  War  Museum,  I  imagined  that  I  had  acted  on  it, 
and  that  I  was  appearing  before  the  judges.  I  should 
have  told  them  a  fine  lot  of  truths,  I  should  have  proved 
to  them  that  I  had  done  right.  I  should  have  made 
myself,  the  accused,  into  the  prosecutor. 

No!  I  should  not  have  spoken  thus,  for  I  should  not 
have  known!  I  should  have  stood  stammering,  full  of 
a  truth  throbbing  within  me,  choking,  unconfessable 
truth.  It  is  not  enough  to  speak;  you  must  know  words. 
When  you  have  said,  "I  am  in  pain,"  or  when  you  have 


282  LIGHT 

said,  "I  am  right,"  you  have  said  nothing  in  reality,  you 
have  only  spoken  to  yourself.  The  real  presence  of 
truth  is  not  in  every  word  of  truth,  because  of  the  wear 
and  tear  of  words,  and  the  fleeting  multiplicity  of  argu- 
ments. One  must  have  the  gift  of  persuasion,  of  leaving 
to  truth  its  speaking  simplicity,  its  solemn  unfoldings. 
It  is  not  I  who  will  be  able  to  speak  from  the  depths  of 
myself.  The  attention  of  men  dazzles  me  when  it  rises 
before  me.  The  very  nakedness  of  paper  frightens  me 
and  drowns  my  looks.  Not  I  shall  embellish  that  white- 
ness with  writing  like  light.  I  understand  of  what  a 
great  tribune's  sorrow  is  made;  and  I  can  only  dream 
of  him  who,  visibly  summarizing  the  immense  crisis  of 
human  necessity  in  a  work  which  forgets  nothing,  which 
seems  to  forget  nothing,  without  the  blot  even  of  a  mis- 
placed comma,  will  proclaim  our  Charter  to  the  epochs 
of  the  times  in  which  we  are,  and  will  let  us  see  it. 
Blessed  be  that  simplifier,  from  whatever  country  he 
may  come, — but  all  the  same,  I  should  prefer  him,  at 
the  bottom  of  my  heart,  to  speak  French. 

Once  more,  he  intervenes  within  me  who  first  showed 
himself  to  me  as  the  specter  of  evil,  he  who  guided  me 
through  hell.  When  the  death-agony  was  choking  him 
and  his  head  had  darkened  like  an  eagle's,  he  hurled  a 
curse  which  I  did  not  understand,  which  I  understand 
now,  on  the  masterpieces  of  art.  He  was  afraid  of  their 
eternity,  of  that  terrible  might  they  have — when  once 
they  are  imprinted  on  the  eyes  of  an  epoch — the  strength 
which  you  can  neither  kill  nor  drive  in  front  of  you.  He 
said  that  Velasquez,  who  was  only  a  chamberlain,  had 
succeeded  Philip  IV,  that  he  would  succeed  the  Escurial, 
that  he  would  succeed  even  Spain  and  Europe.  He 
likened  that  artistic  power,  which  the  Kings  have  tamed 
in  all  respects  save  in  its  greatness,  to  that  of  a  poet- 
reformer  who  throws  a  saying  of  freedom  and  justice 
abroad,  a  book  which  scatters  sparks  among  humanity 


LIGHT  283 

somber  as  coal.  The  voice  of  the  expiring  prince  crawled 
on  the  ground  and  throbbed  with  secret  blows:  "Be- 
gone, all  you  voices  of  light!" 

****** 

But  what  shall  we  say?  Let  us  spell  out  the  Magna 
Charta  of  which  we  humbly  catch  sight.  Let  us  say  to 
the  people  of  whom  all  peoples  are  made:  "Wake  up 
and  understand,  look  and  see;  and  having  begun  again 
the  consciousness  which  was  mown  down  by  slavery, 
decide  that  everything  must  be  begun  again  1" 

Begin  again,  entirely.  Yes,  that  first.  If  the  human 
charter  does  not  re-create  everything,  it  will  create 
nothing. 

Unless  they  are  universal,  the  reforms  to  be  carried 
out  are  Utopian  and  mortal.  National  reforms  are  only 
fragments  of  reforms.  There  must  be  no  half  measures. 
Half  measures  are  laughter-provoking  in  their  unbounded 
littleness  when  it  is  a  question  for  the  last  time  of  arrest- 
ing the  world's  roll  down  the  hill  of  horror.  There  must 
be  no  half  measures  because  there  are  no  half  truths. 
Do  all,  or  you  will  do  nothing. 

Above  all,  do  not  let  the  reforms  be  undertaken  by 
the  Kings.  That  is  the  gravest  thing  to  be  taught  you. 
The  overtures  of  liberality  made  by  the  masters  who 
have  made  the  world  what  it  is  are  only  comedies.  They 
are  only  ways  of  blockading  completely  the  progress  to 
come,  of  building  up  the  past  again  behind  new  patch- 
work of  plaster. 

Never  listen,  either,  to  the  fine  words  they  offer  you, 
the  letters  of  which  you  see  like  dry  bones  on  hoardings 
and  the  fronts  of  buildings.  There  are  official  proclama- 
tions, full  of  the  notion  of  liberty  and  rights,  which 
would  be  beautiful  if  they  said  truly  what  they  say. 
But  they  who  compose  them  do  not  attach  their  full 
meaning  to  the  words.  What  they  recite  they  are  not 
capable  of  wanting,  nor  even  of  understanding.  The 


284  LIGHT 

one  indisputable  sign  of  progress  in  ideas  to-day  is  that 
there  are  things  which  they  dare  no  longer  leave  publicly 
unsaid,  and  that's  all.  There  are  not  all  the  political 
parties  that  there  seem  to  be.  They  swarm,  certainly, 
as  numerous  as  the  cases  of  short  sight;  but  there  are 
only  two — the  democrats  and  the  conservatives.  Every 
political  deed  ends  fatally  either  in  one  or  the  other, 
and  all  their  leaders  have  always  a  tendency  to  act  in 
the  direction  of  reaction.  Beware,  and  never  forget  that 
if  certain  assertions  are  made  by  certain  lips,  that  is  a 
sufficient  reason  why  you  should  at  once  mistrust  them. 
When  the  bleached  old  republicans *  take  your  cause  in 
their  hands,  be  quite  sure  that  it  is  not  yours.  Be  wary 
as  lions. 

Do  not  let  the  simplicity  of  the  new  world  out  of 
your  sight.  The  social  trust  is  simple.  The  complica- 
tions are  in  what  is  overhead — the  accumulation  of  de- 
lusions and  prejudice  heaped  up  by  ages  of  tyrants, 
parasites,  and  lawyers.  That  conviction  sheds  a  real 
glimmer  of  light  on  your  duty  and  points  out  the  way 
to  accomplish  it.  He  who  would  dig  right  down  to  the 
truth  must  simplify;  his  faith  must  be  brutally  simple, 
or  he  is  lost.  Laugh  at  the  subtle  shades  and  distinc- 
tions of  the  rhetoricians  and  the  specialist  physicians. 
Say  aloud:  "This  is  what  is,"  and  then,  "That  is  what 
must  be." 

You  will  never  have  that  simplicity,  you  people  of  the 
world,  if  you  do  not  seize  it.  If  you  want  it,  do  it  your- 
self with  your  own  hands.  And  I  give  you  now  the 
talisman,  the  wonderful  magic  word — you  can! 

That  you  may  be  a  judge  of  existing  things,  go  back 
to  their  origins,  and  get  at  the  endings  of  all.  The 
noblest  and  most  fruitful  work  of  the  human  intelligence 
is  to  make  a  clean  sweep  of  every  enforced  idea — of  ad- 

*The  word  is  used  here  much  in  the  sense  of  our  word 
"Tories."— Tr. 


LIGHT  285- 

vantages  or  meanings — and  to  go  right  through  appear- 
ances in  search  of  the  eternal  bases.  Thus  you  will 
clearly  see  the  moral  law  at  the  beginning  of  all  things, 
and  the  conception  of  justice  and  equality  will  appear  to 
you  beautiful  as  daylight. 

Strong  in  that  supreme  simplicity,  you  shall  say:  I 
am  the  people  of  the  peoples;  therefore  I  am  the  King 
of  Kings,  and  I  will  that  sovereignty  flows  everywhere 
from  me,  since  I  am  might  and  right.  I  want  no  more 
despots,  confessed  or  otherwise,  great  or  little;  I  know, 
and  I  want  no  more.  The  incomplete  liberation  of  1789 
was  attacked  by  the  Kings.  Complete  liberation  will 
attack  the  Kings. 

But  Kings  are  not  exclusively  the  uniformed  ones 
among  the  trumpery  wares  of  the  courts.  Assuredly,  the 
nations  who  have  a  King  have  more  tradition  and  sub- 
jection than  the  others.  But  there  are  countries  where 
no  man  can  get  up  and  say,  "My  people,  my  army," 
nations  which  only  experience  the  continuation  of  the 
kingly  tradition  in  more  peaceful  intensity.  There  are 
others  with  the  great  figures  of  democratic  leaders;  but 
as  long  as  the  entirety  of  things  is  not  overthrown — 
always  the  entirety,  the  sacred  entirety — these  men 
cannot  achieve  the  impossible,  and  sooner  or  later  their 
too-beautiful  inclinations  will  be  isolated  and  misunder- 
stood. In  the  formidable  urgency  of  progress,  what  do 
the  proportions  matter  to  you  of  the  elements  which 
make  up  the  old  order  of  things  in  the  world?  All  the 
governors  cling  fatally  together  among  themselves,  and 
more  solidly  than  you  think,  through  the  old  machine  of 
chancelleries,  ministries,  diplomacy,  and  the  ceremonials 
with  gilded  swords;  and  when  they  are  bent  on  making 
war  for  themselves  there  is  an  unquenchable  likeness 
between  them  all,  of  which  you  want  no  more.  Break 
the  chain;  suppress  all  privileges,  and  say  at  last,  "Let 
there  be  equality." 


286  LIGHT 

One  man  is  as  good  as  another.  That  means  that  no 
man  carries  within  himself  any  privilege  which  puts  him 
above  the  universal  law.  It  means  an  equality  in  prin- 
ciple, and  that  does  not  invalidate  the  legitimacy  of  the 
differences  due  to  work,  to  talent,  and  to  moral  sense. 
The  leveling  only  affects  the  rights  of  the  citizen;  and 
not  the  man  as  a  whole.  You  do  not  create  the  living 
being;  you  do  not  fashion  the  living  clay,  as  God  did 
in  the  Bible;  you  make  regulations.  Individual  worth, 
on  which  some  pretend  to  rely,  is  relative  and  unstable, 
and  no  one  is  a  judge  of  it.  In  a  well-organized  entirety, 
it  cultivates  and  improves  itself  automatically.  But  that 
magnificent  anarchy  cannot,  at  the  inception  of  the  hu- 
man Charter,  take  the  place  of  the  obviousness  of 
equality. 

The  poor  man,  the  proletarian,  is  nobler  than  an- 
other, but  not  more  sacred.  In  truth,  all  workers  and 
all  honest  men  are  as  good  as  each  other.  But  the  poor, 
the  exploited,  are  fifteen  hundred  millions  here  on  earth. 
They  are  the  Law  because  they  are  the  Number.  The 
moral  law  is  only  the  imperative  preparation  of  the 
common  good.  It  always  involves,  in  different  forms, 
the  necessary  limitations  of  some  individual  interests 
by  the  rest;  that  is  to  say,  the  sacrifice  of  one  to  the 
many,  of  the  many  to  the  whole.  The  republican  con- 
ception is  the  civic  translation  of  the  moral  law;  what 
is  anti-republican  is  immoral. 

Socially,  women  are  the  equals  of  men,  without  re- 
strictions. The  beings  who  shine  and  who  bring  forth 
are  not  made  solely  to  lend  or  to  give  the  heat  of  their 
bodies.  It  is  right  that  the  sum  total  of  work  should 
be  shared,  reduced  and  harmonized  by  their  hands.  It 
is  just  that  the  fate  of  humanity  should  be  grounded 
also  in  the  strength  of  women.  Whatever  the  danger 
which  their  instinctive  love  of  shining  things  may  occa- 
sion, in  spite  of  the  facility  with  which  they  color  all 


LIGHT  287 

things  with  their  own  feelings  and  the  totality  of  their 
slightest  impulses — the  legend  of  their  incapacity  is  a 
fog  that  you  will  dissipate  with  a  gesture  of  your  hands. 
Their  advent  is  in  the  order  of  things;  and  it  is  also 
in  order  to  await  with  hopeful  heart  the  day  when  the 
social  and  political  chains  of  women  will  fall  off,  when 
human  liberty  will  suddenly  become  twice  as  great. 

People  of  the  world,  establish  equality  right  up  to  the 
limits  of  your  great  life.  Lay  the  foundations  of  the 
republic  of  republics  over  all  the  area  where  you  breathe; 
that  is  to  say,  the  common  control  in  broad  daylight 
of  all  external  affairs,  of  community  in  the  laws  of  labor, 
of  production  and  of  commerce.  The  subdivision  of 
these  high  social  and  moral  arrangements  by  nations  or 
by  limited  unions  of  nations  (enlargements  which  are 
reductions)  is  artificial,  arbitrary,  and  malignant.  The 
so-called  inseparable  cohesions  of  national  interests  van- 
ish away  as  soon  as  you  draw  near  to  examine  them. 
There  are  individual  interests  and  a  general  interest, 
those  two  only.  When  you  say  "I,"  it  means  "I";  when 
you  say  "We,"  it  means  Man.  So  long  as  a  single  and 
identical  Republic  does  not  cover  the  world,  all  national 
liberations  can  only  be  beginnings  and  signals! 

Thus  you  will  disarm  the  "fatherlands"  and  "mother- 
lands," and  you  will  reduce  the  notion  of  Motherland 
to  the  little  bit  of  social  importance  that  it  must  have. 
You  will  do  away  with  the  military  frontiers,  and  those 
economic  and  commercial  barriers  which  are  still  worse. 
Protection  introduces  violence  into  the  expansion  of 
labor;  like  militarism,  it  brings  in  a  fatal  absence  of 
balance.  You  will  suppress  that  which  justifies  among 
nations  the  things  which  among  individuals  we  call  mur- 
der, robbery,  and  unfair  competition.  You  will  sup- 
press battles — not  nearly  so  much  by  the  direct  meas- 
ures of  supervision  and  order  that  you  will  take  as  be- 
cause you  will  suppress  the  causes  of  battle.  You  will 


288  LIGHT 

suppress  them  chiefly  because  it  is  you  who  will  do  it, 
by  yourself,  everywhere,  with  your  invincible  strength 
and  the  lucid  conscience  that  is  free  from  selfish  motives. 
You  will  not  make  war  on  yourself. 

You  will  not  be  afraid  of  magic  formulas  and  the 
churches.  Your  giant  reason  will  destroy  the  idol  which 
suffocates  its  true  believers.  You  will  salute  the  flags 
for  the  last  time;  to  that  ancient  enthusiasm  which  flat- 
tered the  puerility  of  your  ancestors,  you  will  say  a 
peaceful  and  final  farewell.  In  some  corners  of  the 
calamities  of  the  past,  there  were  times  of  tender  emo- 
tion; but  truth  is  greater,  and  there  are  not  more  boun- 
daries on  the  earth  than  on  the  sea! 

Each  country  will  be  a  moral  force,  and  no  longer  a 
brutal  force;  while  all  brutal  forces  clash  with  them- 
selves, all  moral  forces  make  mighty  harmony  together. 

The  universal  republic  is  the  inevitable  consequence 
of  equal  rights  in  life  for  all.  Start  from  the  principle 
of  equality,  and  you  arrive  at  the  people's  international. 
If  you  do  not  arrive  there  it  is  because  you  have  not 
reasoned  aright.  They  who  start  from  the  opposite  point 
of  view — God,  and  the  divine  rights  of  popes  and  Kings 
and  nobles,  and  authority  and  tradition — will  come,  by 
fabulous  paths  but  quite  logically,  to  opposite  conclu- 
sions. You  must  not  cease  to  hold  that  there  are  only 
two  teachings  face  to  face.  All  things  are  amenable  to 
reason,  the  supreme  Reason  which  mutilated  humanity, 
wounded  in  the  eyes,  has  deified  among  the  clouds. 
****** 

You  will  do  away  with  the  rights  of  the  dead,  and  with 
heredity  of  power,  whatever  it  may  be,  that  inheritance 
which  is  unjust  in  all  "its  gradations,  for  tradition  takes 
root  there,  and  it  is  an  outrage  on  equality,  against  the 
order  of  labor.  Labor  is  a  great  civic  deed  which  all 
men  and  all  women  without  exception  must  share  or  go 
down.  Such  divisions  will  reduce  it  for  each  one  to 


LIGHT  289 

dignified  proportions  and  prevent  it  from  devouring 
human  lives. 

You  will  not  permit  colonial  ownership  by  States, 
which  makes  stains  on  the  map  of  the  world  and  is  not 
justified  by  confessable  reasons;  and  you  will  organize 
the  abolition  of  that  collective  slavery.  You  will  allow 
the  individual  property  of  the  living  to  stand.  It  is 
equitable  because  its  necessity  is  inherent  in  the  circum- 
stances of  the  living,  and  because  there  are  cases  where 
you  cannot  tear  away  the  right  of  ownership  without 
tearing  right  itself.  Besides,  the  love  of  things  is  a 
passion,  like  the  love  of  beings.  The  object  of  social 
organization  is  not  to  destroy  sentiment  and  pleasure, 
but  on  the  contrary  to  allow  them  to  flourish,  within 
the  limit  of  not  wronging  others.  It  is  right  to  enjoy 
what  you  have  clearly  earned  by  your  work.  That 
focused  wisdom  alone  bursts  among  the  old  order  of 
things  like  a  curse. 

Chase  away  forever,  everywhere,  everywhere,  the  bad 
masters  of  the  sacred  school.  Knowledge  incessantly 
remakes  the  whole  of  civilization.  The  child's  intelli- 
gence is  too  precious  not  to  be  under  the  protection  of 
all.  The  heads  of  families  are  not  free  to  deal  according 
to  their  caprices  with  the  ignorance  which  each  -child 
brings  into  the  daylight;  they  have  not  that  liberty  con- 
trary to  liberty.  A  child  does  not  belong  body  and  soul 
to  its  parents;  it  is  a  person,  and  our  ears  are  wounded 
by  the  blasphemy — a  residue  of  despotic  Roman  tradi- 
tion— of  those  who  -speak  of  their  sons  killed  in  the  -war 
and  say,  "I  have  given  my  son."  You  do  not  give  living 
beings — and  all  intelligence  belongs  primarily  to  reason. 

There  must  no  longer  be  a  single  school  where  they 
teach  idolatry,  where  the  wills  of  to-morrow  grow  bigger 
under  the  terror  of  a  God  who  does  not  exist,  and  on 
whom  so  many  bad  arguments  are  thrown  away  or  justi- 
fied. Nowhere  must  there  be  any  more  school-books 


2QO  LIGHT 

where  they  dress  up  in  some  finery  of  prestige  what  is 
most  contemptible  and  debasing  in  the  past  of  the  na- 
tions. Let  there  be  nothing  but  universal  histories,  noth- 
ing but  the  great  lines  and  peaks,  the  lights  and  shadows 
of  that  chaos  which  for  six  thousand  years  has  been  the 
fortune  of  two  hundred  thousand  millions  of  men. 

You  will  suppress  everywhere  the  advertising  of  the 
cults,  you  will  wipe  away  the  inky  uniform  of  the  par- 
sons. Let  every  believer  keep  his  religion  for  himself, 
and  let  the  priests  stay  between  walls.  Toleration  in 
face  of  error  is  a  graver  error.  One  might  have  dreamed 
of  a  wise  and  universal  church,  for  Jesus  Christ  will  be 
justified  in  His  human  teaching  as  long  as  there  are 
hearts.  But  they  who  have  taken  His  morality  in  hand 
and  fabricated  their  religion  have  poisoned  the  truth; 
more,  they  have  shown  for  two  thousand  years  that  they 
place  the  interests  of  their  caste  before  those  of  the  sacred 
law  of  what  is  right.  No  words,  no  figures  can  ever 
give  an  idea  of  the  evil  which  the  Church  has  done  to 
mankind.  When  she  is  not  the  oppressor  herself,  uphold- 
ing the  right  of  force,  she  lends  her  authority  to  the 
oppressors  and  sanctifies  their  pretenses;  and  still  to-day 
she  is  closely  united  everywhere  with  those  who  <do  not 
want  the  reign  of  the  poor.  Just  as 'the  Jingoes  invoke 
the  charm  of  the  domestic  cradle  that  they  may  give  an 
impulse  to  war,  so  does  the  Church  invoke  the  poetry 
of  the  Gospels;  but  she  has  become  an  aristocratic  party 
like  the  rest,  in  which  every  gesture  of  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  ,is  a  slap  in  the  Face  of  Jesus  Christ.  Out  of  the 
love  of  one's  native  soil,  they  have  made  Nationalists; 
out  of  Jesus  they  have  made  Jesuits. 

Only  international  greatness  will  at  last  permit  the 
rooting  up  of  the  stubborn  abuses  which  the  partition 
walls  of  nationality  multiply,  entangle  and  solidify.  The 
future  Charter — of  which  we  confusedly  glimpse  some 
signs  and  which  has  for  its  premises  the  great  moral 


LIGHT  291 

principles  restored  to  their  place,  and  the  multitude  at 
last  restored  to  theirs — will  force  the  newspapers  to  con-( 
fess  all  their  resources.  By  means  of  a  young  language, 
simple  and  modest,  it  will  unite  all  foreigners — those 
prisoners  of  themselves.  It  will  mow  down  the  hateful 
complexity  of  judicial  procedure,  with  its  booty  for  the 
somebodies,  and  its  lawyers  as  well,  who  intrude  the 
tricks  of  diplomacy  and  the  melodramatic  usages  of  elo- 
quence into  the  plain  and  simple  machinery  of  justice. 
The  righteous  man  must  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  clemency 
has  not  its  place  in  justice;  the  logical  majesty  of  the 
sentence  which  condemns  the  guilty  one  in  order  to 
frighten  possible  evil-doers  (and  never  for  another  rea- 
son) is  itself  beyond  forgiveness.  International  dignity 
will  close  the  taverns,  forbid  the  sale  of  poisons,  and  will 
reduce  to  impotence  the  vendors  who  want  to  render 
abortive,  in  men  and  young  people,  the  future's  beauty 
and  the  reign  of  intelligence.  And  here  is  a  mandate 
which  appears  before  my  eyes — the  tenacious  law  which 
must  pounce  without  respite  on  all  public  robbers,  on  all 
those,  little  and  big,  cynics  and  hypocrites,  who,  when 
their  trade  or  their  functions  bring  the  opportunity,  ex- 
ploit misery  and  speculate  on  necessity.  There  is  a  new 
hierarchy  *to  make  mistakes,  to  commit  offenses  and 
crimes — the  true  one. 

You  can  form  no  idea  of  the  beauty  that  is  possible! 
You  cannot  imagine  what  all  the  squandered  treasure 
can  provide,  what  can  be  brought  on  by  the  resurrection 
of  misguided  human  intelligence,  successively  smothered 
and  slain  hitherto  by  infamous  slavery,  by  the  despicable 
infectious  necessity  of  armed  attack  and  defense,  and 
by  the  privileges  which  debase  human  worth.  You  can 
have  no  notion  what  human  intelligence  may  one  day 
find  of  new  adoration.  The  people's  absolute  reign  will 
give  to 'literature  and  the  arts — whose  harmonious  shape 
is  still  but  roughly  sketched — a  splendor  boundless  as 


292  LIGHT 

the  rest.  National  cliques  cultivate  narrowness  and  ig- 
norance, they  cause  originality  to  waste  away;  and  the 
national  academies,  to  which  a  residue  of  superstition 
lends  respect,  are  only  pompous  ways  of  upholding  ruins. 
The  domes  of  those  Institutes  which  look  so  grand  when 
they  tower  above  you  are  as  ridiculous  as  extinguishers. 
You  must  widen  and  internationalize,  without  pause  or 
limit,  all  which  permits  of  it.  With  its  barriers  collapsed, 
you  must  fill  society  with  broad  daylight  and  magnifi- 
cent spaces;  with  patience  and  heroism  must  you  clear 
the  ways  which  lead  from  the  individual  to  humanity, 
the  ways  which  were  stopped  up  with  corpses  of  ideas 
and  with  stone  images  all  along  their  great  curving  hori- 
zons. Let  everything  be  remade  on  simple  lines.  There 
is  only  one  people,  there  is  only  one  people! 

If  you  do  that,  you  will  be  able  to  say  that,  at  the 
moment  when  you  planned  your  effort  and  took  your 
decision,  you  saved  the  human  species  as  far  as  it  is 
possible  on  earth  to  do  it.  You  will  not  have  brought 
happiness  about.  The  fallacy-mongers  do  not  frighten 
us  when  they  preach  resignation  and  paralysis  on  the 
plea  that  no  social  change  can  bring  happiness,  thus 
trifling  with  these  profound  things.  Happiness  is  part 
of  the  inner  life,  it  is  an  intimate  and  personal  paradise; 
it  is  a  flash  of  chance  or  genius  which  comes  sweetly  to 
life  among  those  who  elbow  each  other,  and  it  is  also 
the  sense  of  glory.  No,  it  is  not  in  your  hands,  and  so 
it  is  in  nobody's  hands.  But  a  balanced  and  heedful  life 
is  necessary  to  man,  that  he  may  build  the  isolated  home 
of  happiness;  and  death  is  the  fearful  connection  of  the 
happenings  which  pass  away  along  with  our  profundi- 
ties. External  things  and  those  which  are  hidden  are 
essentially  different,  but  they  are  held  together  by  peace 
and  by  death. 

To  accomplish  the  majestically  practical  work,  to  shape 
the  whole  architecture  like  a  statue,  base  nothing  on 


LIGHT  293 

impossible  modifications  of  human  nature;  await  nothing 
from  pity. 

Charity  is  a  privilege,  and  must  disappear.  For  the 
rest,  you  cannot  love  unknown  people  any  more  than 
you  can  have  pity  on  them.  The  human  intelligence  is 
made  for  infinity;  the  heart  is  not.  The  being  who 
really  suffers  in  his  heart,  and  not  merely  in  his  mind 
or  in  words,  by  the  suffering  of  others  whom  he  neither 
sees  nor  touches,  is  a  nervous  abnormality,  and  he  can- 
not be  argued  from  as  an  example.  The  repulse  of  rea- 
son, the  stain  of  absurdity,  torture  the  intelligence  in  a 
more  abundant  way.  Simple  as  it  may  be,  social  science 
is  geometry.  Do  not  accept  the  sentimental  meaning  they 
give  to  the  word  "humanitarianism,"  and  say  that  the 
preaching  of  fraternity  and  love  is  vain;  these  words  lose 
their  meaning  amid  the  great  numbers  of  man.  It  is  in 
this  disordered  confusion  of  feelings  and  ideas  that  one 
feels  the  presence  of  Utopia.  Mutual  solidarity  is  of 
the  intellect — common-sense,  logic,  methodical  precision, 
order  without  faltering,  the  ruthless  inevitable  perfection 
of  light! 

In  my  fervor,  in  my  hunger,  and  from  the  depths  of 
my  abyss,  I  uttered  these  words  aloud  amid  the  silence. 
My  great  reverie  was  blended  with  song,  like  the  Ninth 
Symphony. 

****** 

I  am  resting  on  my  elbows  at  the  window.  I  am  look- 
ing at  the  night,  which  is  everywhere,  which  touches  me, 
me,  although  I  am  only  I,  and  it  is  infinite  night.  It 
seems  to  me  that  there  is  nothing  else  left  me  to  think 
about.  Things  cling  together;  they  will  save  each  other, 
and  will  do  their  setting  in  order. 

But  again  I  am  seized  by  the  sharpest  of  my  agonies — 
I  am  afraid  that  the  multitude  may  rest  content  with 
the  partial  gratifications  to  be  granted  them  everywhere 
by  those  who  will  use  all  their  clinging,  cunning  power 


294  LIGHT 

to  prevent  the  people  from  understanding,  and  then  from 
wishing.  On  the  day  of  victory,  they  will  pour  intoxica- 
tion and  dazzling  deceptions  into  you,  and  put  almost 
superhuman  cries  into  your  mouths,  "We  have  delivered 
humanity;  we  are  the  soldiers  of  the  Right!"  without 
telling  you  all  that  such  a  statement  includes  of  gravity, 
of  immense  pledges  and  constructive  genius,  what  it  in- 
volves in  respect  for  great  peoples,  whoever  they  are, 
and  of  gratitude  to  those  who  are  trying  to  deliver  them- 
selves. They  will  again  take  up  their  eternal  mission  of 
stupefying  the  great  conscious  forces,  and  turning  them 
aside  from  their  ends.  They  will  appeal  for  union  and 
peace  and  patience,  to  the  opportunism  of  changes,  to 
the  danger  of  going  too  quickly,  or  of  meddling  in  your 
neighbor's  affairs,  and  all  the  other  fallacies  of  the  sort. 
They  will  try  again  to  ridicule  and  strike  down  those 
whom  the  newspapers  (the  ones  in  their  pay)  call  dream- 
ers, sectarians,  and  traitors;  once  again  they  will  flourish 
all  their  old  talismans.  Doubtless  they  will  propose,  in 
the  fashionable  words  of  the  moment,  some  official  paro- 
dies of  international  justice,  which  they  will  break  up 
one  day  like  theatrical  scenery;  they  will  enunciate  some 
popular  right,  curtailed  by  childish  restrictions  and  mon- 
strous definitions,  resembling  a  brigand's  code  of  honor. 
The  wrong  torn  from  confessed  autocracies  will  hatch 
out  elsewhere — in  the  sham  republics,  and  the  self-styled 
liberal  countries  who  have  played  a  hidden  game.  The 
concessions  they  will  make  will  clothe  the  old  rotten  au- 
tocracy again,  and  perpetuate  it.  One  imperialism  will 
replace  the  other,  and  the  generations  to  come  will  be 
marked  for  the  sword.  Soldier,  wherever  you  are,  they 
will  try  to  efface  your  memory,  or  to  exploit  it,  by  leading 
it  astray,  and  forgetfulness  of  the  truth  is  the  first  form 
of  your  adversity!  May  neither  defeat  nor  victory  be 
against  you.  You  are  above  both  of  them,  for  you  are 
all  the  people. 


LIGHT  295 

The  skies  are  peopled  with  stars,  a  harmony  which 
clasps  reason  close,  and  applies  the  mind  to  the  ador- 
able idea  of  universal  unity.  Must  that  harmony  give  us 
hope  or  misgiving? 

We  are  in  a  great  night  of  the  world.  The  thing  is  to 
know  if  we  shall  wake  up  to-morrow.  We  have  only 
one  succor — we  know  of  what  the  night  is  made.  But 
shall  we  be  able  to  impart  our  lucid  faith,  seeing  that 
the  heralds  of  warning  are  everywhere  few,  and  that  the 
greatest  victims  hate  the  only  ideal  which  is  not  one, 
and  call  it  Utopian?  Public  opinion  floats  over  the  sur- 
face of  the  peoples,  wavering  and  submissive  to  the  wind; 
it  lends  but  fleeting  conscience  and  conviction  to  the  ma- 
jority; it  cries  "Down  with  the  reformers!"  It  cries 
"Sacrilege!"  because  it  is  made  to  see  in  its  vague 
thoughts  what  it  could  not  itself  see  there.  It  cries  that 
they  are  distorting  it,  whereas  they  are  enlarging  it. 

I  am  not  afraid,  as  many  are,  and  as  I  once  was  my- 
self, of  being  reviled  and  slandered.  I  do  not  cling  to 
respect  and  gratitude  for  myself.  But  if  I  succeed  in 
reaching  men,  I  should  like  them  not  to  curse  me.  Why 
should  they,  since  it  is  not  for  myself?  It  is  only  be- 
cause I  am  sure  I  am  right.  I  am  sure  of  the  principles 
I  see  at  the  source  of  all — justice,  logic,  equality;  all 
those  divinely  human  truths  whose  contrast  with  the 
realized  truth  of  to-day  is  so  heart-breaking.  And  I 
want  to  appeal  to  you  all;  and  that  confidence  which 
fills  me  with  a  tragic  joy,  I  want  to  give  it  to  you,  at 
once  as  a  command  and  as  a  prayer.  There  are  not 
several  ways  of  attaining  it  athwart  everything,  and  of 
fastening  life  and  the  truth  together  again;  there  is  only 
one — right-doing.  Let  rule  begin  again  with  the  sublime 
control  of  the  intellect.  I  am  a  man  like  the  rest,  a  man 
like  you.  You  who  shake  your  head  or  shrug  your  shoul- 
ders as  you  listen  to  me — why  are  we,  we  two,  we  all, 
so  foreign  to  each  other,  when  we  are  not  foreign? 


LIGHT 

I  believe,  in  spite  of  all,  in  truth's  victory.  I  believe 
in  the  momentous  value,  hereafter  inviolable,  of  those 
few  truly  fraternal  men  in  all  the  countries  of  the  world, 
who,  in  the  oscillation  of  national  egoisms  let  loose, 
stand  up  and  stand  out,  steadfast  as  the  glorious  statues 
of  Right  and  Duty.  To-night  I  believe — nay,  I  am 
certain — that  the  new  order  will  be  built  upon  that 
archipelago  of  men.  Even  if  we  have  still  to  suffer  as 
far  as  we  can  see  ahead,  the  idea  can  no  more  cease  to 
throb  and  grow  stronger  than  the  human  heart  can;  and 
the  will  which  is  already  rising  here  and  there  they  can 
no  longer  destroy. 

I  proclaim  the  inevitable  advent  of  the  universal  re- 
public. Not  the  transient  backslidings,  nor  the  darkness 
and  the  dread,  nor  the  tragic  difficulty  of  uplifting  the 
world  everywhere  at  once  will  prevent  the  fulfillment  of 
international  truth.  But  if  the  great  powers  of  darkness 
persist  in  holding  their  positions,  if  they  whose  clear  cries 
of  warning  should  be  voices  crying  in  the  wilderness — 
O  you  people  of  the  world,  you  the  unwearying  van- 
quished of  History,  I  appeal  to  your  justice  and  I  appeal 
to  your  anger.  Over  the  vague  quarrels  which  drench 
the  strands  with  blood,  over  the  plunderers  of  ship- 
wrecks, over  the  jetsam  and  the  reefs,  and  the  palaces 
and  monuments  built  upon  the  sand,  I  see  the  high  tide 
coming.  Truth  is  only  revolutionary  by  reason  of  error's 
disorder.  Revolution  is  Order. 

****** 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

FACE   TO   FACE 

THROUGH  the  panes  I  see  the  town — I  often  take 
refuge  at  the  windows.  Then  I  go  into  Marie's  bedroom, 
which  gives  a  view  of  the  country.  It  is  such  a  narrow 
room  that  to  get  to  the  window  I  must  touch  her  tidy 
little  bed,  and  I  think  of  her  as  I  pass  it.  A  bed  is 
something  which  never  seems  either  so  cold  or  so  lifeless 
as  other  things;  it  lives  by  an  absence. 

Marie  is  working  in  the  house,  downstairs.  I  hear 
sounds  of  moved  furniture,  of  a  broom,  and  the  recurring 
knock  of  the  shovel  on  the  bucket  into  which  she  empties 
the  dust  she  has  collected.  That  society  is  badly  ar- 
ranged which  forces  nearly  all  women  to  be  servants. 
Marie,  who  is  as  good  as  I  am,  will  have  spent  her  life 
in  cleaning,  in  stooping  amid  dust  and  hot  fumes,  over 
head  and  ears  in  the  great  artificial  darkness  of  the 
house.  I  used  to  find  it  all  natural.  Now  I  think  it  is 
all  anti-natural. 

I  hear  no  more  sounds.  Marie  has  finished.  She  comes 
up  beside  me.  We  have  sought  each  other  and  come  to- 
gether as  often  as  possible  since  the  day  when  we  saw 
so  clearly  that  we  no  longer  loved  each  other! 

We  sit  closely  side  by  side,  and  watch  the  end  of  the 
day.  We  can  see  the  last  houses  of  the  town,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  valley,  low  houses  within  enclosures, 
and  yards,  and  gardens  stocked  with  sheds.  Autumn  is 
making  the  gardens  quite  transparent,  and  reducing  them 
to  nothing  through  their  trees  and  hedges;  yet  here  and 

297 


298  LIGHT 

there  foliage  still  magnificently  flourishes.  It  is  not  the 
wide  landscape  in  its  entirety  which  attracts  me.  It  is 
more  worth  while  to  pick  out  each  of  the  houses  and  look 
at  it  closely. 

These  houses,  which  form  the  finish  of  the  suburb, 
are  not  big,  and  are  not  prosperous;  but  we  see  one 
adorning  itself  with  smoke,  and  we  think  of  the  dead 
wood  coming  to  life  again  on  the  hearth,  and  of  the 
seated  workman,  whose  hands  are  rewarded  with  rest. 
And  that  one,  although  motionless,  is  alive  with  children 
— the  breeze  is  scattering  the  laughter  of  their  games  and 
seems  to  play  with  it,  and  on  the  sandy  ground  are  the 
crumbs  of  childish  footsteps.  Our  eyes  follow  the  post- 
man entering  his  home,  his  work  ended;  he  has  heroically 
overcome  his  long  journeyings.  After  carrying  letters  all 
day  to  those  who  were  waiting  for  them,  he  is  carrying 
himself  to  his  own  people,  who  also  await  him — it  is  the 
family  which  knows  the  value  of  the  father.  He  pushes 
the  gate  open,  he  enters  the  garden  path,  his  hands  are 
at  last  empty! 

Along  by  the  old  gray  wall,  old  Eudo  is  making  his 
way,  the  incurable  widower  whose  bad  news  still  stub- 
bornly persists,  so  that  he  bears  it  along  around  him,  and 
it  slackens  his  steps,  and  can  be  seen,  and  he  takes  up 
more  space  than  he  seems  to  take.  A  woman  meets  him, 
and  her  youth  is  disclosed  in  the  twilight;  it  expands  in 
her  hurrying  steps.  It  is  Mina,  going  to  some  trysting- 
place.  She  crosses  and  presses  her  little  fichu  on  her 
heart;  we  can  see  that  distance  dwindles  affectionately 
in  front  of  her.  As  she  passes  away,  bent  forward  and 
smiling  with  her  ripe  lips,  we  can  see  the  strength  of  her 
heart. 

Mist  is  gradually  falling.  Now  we  can  only  see  white 
things  clearly — the  new  parts  of  houses,  the  walls,  the 
high  road,  joined  to  the  other  one  by  footpaths  which 
straggle  through  the  dark  fields,  the  big  white  stones, 


FACE  TO  FACE  299 

tranquil  as  sheep,  and  the  horse-pond,  whose  gleam  amid 
the  far  obscurity  imitates  whiteness  in  unexpected  fash- 
ion. Then  we  can  only  see  light  things — the  stains  of 
faces  and  hands,  those  faces  which  see  each  other  in  the 
gloom  longer  than  is  logical  and  exceed  themselves. 

Pervaded  by  a  sort  of  serious  musing,  we  turn  back 
into  the  room  and  sit  down,  I  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
she  on  a  chair  in  front  of  the  open  window,  in  the  center 
of  the  pearly  sky. 

Her  thoughts  are  the  same  as  mine,  for  she  turns  her 
face  to  me  and  says: 

"And  ourselves." 

****** 

She  sighs  for  the  thought  she  has.  She  would  like  to 
be  silent,  but  she  must  speak. 

"We  don't  love  each  other  any  more,"  she  says,  em- 
barrassed by  the  greatness  of  the  things  she  utters;  "but 
we  did  once,  and  I  want  to  see  our  love  again." 

She  gets  up,  opens  the  wardrobe,  and  sits  down  again 
in  the  same  place  with  a  box  in  her  hands.  She  says: 

"There  it  is.    Those  are  our  letters." 

"Our  letters,  our  beautiful  letters!"  she  goes  on.  "I 
could  really  say  they're  more  beautiful  than  all  others. 
We  know  them  by  heart — but  would  you  like  us  to  read 
them  again?  You  read  them — there's  still  light  enough 
— and  let  me  see  how  happy  we've  been." 

She  hands  the  casket  to  me.  The  letters  we  wrote 
each  other  during  our  engagement  are  arranged  in  it. 

"That  one,"  she  says,  "is  the  first  from  you.  Is  it? 
Yes — no,  it  isn't;  do  you  think  it  is?" 

I  take  the  letter,  murmur  it,  and  then  read  it  aloud. 
It  spoke  of  the  future,  and  said,  "In  a  little  while,  how 
happy  we  shall  be!" 

She  comes  near,  lowers  her  head,  reads  the  date  and 
whispers: 

"Nineteen-two;  it's  been  dead  for  thirteen  years — it's 


300  LIGHT 

a  long  time.     No,  it  isn't  a  long  time — I  don't  know 
what  it  ought  to  be.    Here's  another — read  it." 

I  go  on  denuding  the  letters.  We  quickly  find  out 
what  a  mistake  it  was  to  say  we  know  them  by  heart. 
This  one  has  no  date — simply  the  name  of  a  day — Mon- 
day, and  we  believed  that  would  be  enough!  Now,  it 
is  entirely  lost  and  become  barren,  this  anonymous  letter 
in  the  middle  of  the  rest. 

"We  don't  know  them  by  heart  any  more,"  Marie 
confesses.  "Remember  ourselves?  How  could  we  re- 
member all  that?" 

****** 

This  reading  was  like  that  of  a  book  once  already  read 
in  bygone  days.  It  could  not  revive  again  the  diligent 
and  fervent  hours  when  our  pens  were  moving — and  our 
lips,  too,  a  little.  Indistinctly  it  brought  back,  with 
unfathomable  gaps,  the  adventure  lived  in  three  days  by 
others,  the  people  that  we  were.  When  I  read  a  letter 
from  her  which  spoke  of  caresses  to  come,  Marie  stam- 
mered, "And  she  dared  to  write  that!"  but  she  did  not 
blush  and  was  not  confused. 

Then  she  shook  her  head  a  little,  and  said  dolefully: 

"What  a  lot  of  things  we  have  hidden  away,  little  by 
little,  in  spite  of  ourselves!  How  strong  people  must  be 
to  forget  so  much!" 

She  was  beginning  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  bottomless 
abyss,  and  to  despair.  Suddenly  she  broke  in: 

"That's  enough!  We  can't  read  them  again.  We 
can't  understand  what's  written.  That's  enough — don't 
take  my  illusion  away." 

She  spoke  like  the  poor  madwoman  of  the  streets,  and 
added  in  a  whisper: 

"This  morning,  when  I  opened  that  box  where  the 
letters  were  shut  up,  some  little  flies  flew  out." 

We  stop  reading  the  letters  a  moment,  and  look  at 
them.  The  ashes  of  life!  All  that  we  can  remember  is 


FACE  TO  FACE  301 

almost  nothing.  Memory  is  greater  than  we  are,  but 
memory  is  living  and  mortal  as  well.  These  letters,  these 
unintelligible  flowers,  these  bits  of  lace  and  of  paper, 
what  are  they?  Around  these  flimsy  things  what  is  there 
left?  We  are  handling  the  casket  together.  Thus  we 

are  completely  attached  in  the  hollow  of  our  hands. 

****** 

And  yet  we  went  on  reading. 

But  something  strange  is  growing  gradually  greater; 
it  grasps  us,  it  surprises  us  hopelessly — every  letter 
speaks  of  the  future. 

In  vain  Marie  said  to  me: 

"What  about  afterwards?    Try  another — later  on." 

Every  letter  said,  "In  a  little  while,  how  we  shall  love 
each  other  when  our  time  is  spent  together!  How  beau- 
tiful you  will  be  when  you  are  always  there.  Later  on 
we'll  make  that  trip  again;  after  a  while  we'll  carry  that 
scheme  out,  later  on  .  .  ." 

"That's  all  we  could  say!" 

A  little  before  the  wedding  we  wrote  that  we  were 
wasting  our  time  so  far  from  each  other,  and  that  we 
were  unhappy. 

"Ah!"  said  Marie,  in  a  sort  of  terror,  "we  wrote  that! 
And  afterwards  .  .  ." 

After,  the  letter  from  which  we  expected  all,  said: 

"Soon  we  shan't  leave  each  other  any  more.  At  last 
we  shall  live!"  And  it  spoke  of  a  paradise,  of  the  life 
that  was  coming.  .  .  . 

"And  afterwards?" 

"After  that,   there's  nothing  more  .  .  .  it's  the  last 

letter." 

****** 

There  is  nothing  more.  It  is  like  a  stage-trick,  sud- 
denly revealing  the  truth.  There  is  nothing  between  the 
paradise  dreamed  of  and  the  paradise  lost.  There  is 
nothing,  since  we  always  want  what  we  have  not  got. 


302  LIGHT 

We  hope,  and  then  we  regret.  We  hope  for  the  future, 
and  then  we  turn  to  the  past,  and  then  we  begin  slowly 
and  desperately  to  hope  for  the  past!  The  two  most 
violent  and  abiding  feelings,  hope  and  regret,  both  lean 
upon  nothing.  To  ask,  to  ask,  to  have  not!  Humanity 
is  exactly  the  same  thing  as  poverty.  Happiness  has  not 
the  time  to  live;  we  have  not  really  the  time  to  profit  by 
what  we  are.  Happiness,  that  thing  which  never  is — 
and  which  yet,  for  one  day,  is  no  longer! 

I  see  her  drawing  breath,  quivering,  mortally  wounded, 
sinking  upon  the  chair. 

I  take  her  hand,  as  I  did  before.  I  speak  to  her, 
rather  timidly  and  at  random:  "Carnal  love  isn't  the 
whole  of  love." 

"It's  love!"  Marie  answers. 

I  do  not  reply. 

"Ah!"  she  says,  "we  try  to  juggle  with  words,  but  we 
can't  conceal  the  truth." 

"The  truth!  I'm  going  to  tell  you  what  I  have  been 
truly,  /.  .  .  ." 

****** 

I  could  not  prevent  myself  from  saying  it,  from  cry- 
ing it  in  a  loud  and  trembling  voice,  leaning  over  her. 
For  some  moments  there  had  been  outlined  within  me 
the  tragic  shape  of  the  cry  which  at  last  came  forth. 
It  was  a  sort  of  madness  of  sincerity  and  simplicity 
which  seized  me. 

And  I,  unveiling  my  life  to  her,  though  it  slid  away 
by  the  side  of  hers,  all  my  life,  with  its  failings  and  its 
coarseness.  I  let  her  see  me  in  my  desires,  in  my  hun- 
gers, in  my  entrails. 

Never  has  a  confession  so  complete  been  thrown  off. 
Yes,  among  the  fates  which  men  and  women  bear  to- 
gether, one  must  be  almost  mad  not  to  lie.  I  tick  off 
my  past,  the  succession  of  love-affairs  multiplied  by  each 
other,  and  come  to  naught.  I  have  been  an  ordinary 


FACE  TO  FACE  303 

man,  no  better,  no  worse,  than  another;  well,  here  I  am, 
here  is  the  man,  here  is  the  lover. 

I  can  see  that  she  has  half-risen,  in  the  little  bedroom 
which  has  lost  its  color.  She  is  afraid  of  the  truth!  She 
watches  my  words  as  you  look  at  a  blasphemer.  But 
the  truth  has  seized  me  and  cannot  let  me  go.  And  I 
recall  what  was — both  this  woman  and  that,  and  all 
those  whom  I  loved  and  never  deigned  to  know  what 
they  brought  me  when  they  brought  their  bodies;  I  recall 
the  fierce  selfishness  which  nothing  exhausted,  and  all 
the  savagery  of  my  life  beside  her.  I  say  it  all — unable 
even  to  avoid  the  blows  of  brutal  details — like  a  harsh 
duty  accomplished  to  the  end. 

Sometimes  she  murmured,  like  a  sigh,  "I  knew  it."  At 
others,  she  would  say,  almost  like  a  sob,  "That's  true!" 
And  once,  too,  she  began  a  confused  protest,  a  sort  of 
reproach.  Then,  soon,  she  listens  nigher.  She  might 
almost  be  left  behind  by  the  greatness  of  my  confession; 
and,  gradually,  I  see  her  falling  into  silence,  the  twice- 
illumined  woman  on  that  adorable  side  of  the  room,  she 
still  receives  on  her  hair  and  neck  and  hands,  some  mor- 
sels of  heaven. 

And  what  I  am  most  ashamed  of  in  those  bygone  days 
when  I  was  mad  after  the  treasure  of  unknown  women 
is  this:  that  I  spoke  to  them  of  eternal  fidelity,  of  super- 
human enticements,  of  divine  exaltation,  of  sacred  affini- 
ties which  must  be  joined  together  at  all  costs,  of  beings 
who  have  always  been  waiting  for  each  other,  and  are 
made  for  each  other,  and  all  that  one  can  say — some- 
times almost  sincerely,  alas! — just  to  gain  my  ends.  I 
confess  all  that,  I  cast  it  from  me  as  if  I  was  at  last 
ridding  myself  of  the  lies  acted  upon  her,  and  upon  the 
others,  and  upon  myself.  Instinct  is  instinct;  let  it  rule 
like  a  force  of  nature.  But  the  Lie  is  a  ravisher. 

I  feel  a  sort  of  curse  rising  from  me  upon  that  blind 
religion  with  which  we  clothe  the  things  of  the  flesh  be- 


304  LIGHT 

cause  they  are  strong,  those  of  which  I  was  the  play- 
thing, like  everybody,  always  and  everywhere.  No,  two 
sensuous  lovers  are  not  two  friends.  Much  rather  are 
they  two  enemies,  closely  attached  to  each  other.  I 
know  it,  I  know  it!  There  are  perfect  couples,  no  doubt 
— perfection  always  exists  somewhere — but  I  mean  us 
others,  all  of  us,  the  ordinary  people!  I  knowl — the 
human  being's  real  quality,  the  delicate  lights  and 
shadows  of  human  dreams,  the  sweet  and  complicated 
mystery  of  personalities,  sensuous  lovers  deride  them, 
both  of  them!  They  are  two  egoists,  falling  fiercely  on 
each  other.  Together  they  sacrifice  themselves,  utterly 
in  a  flash  of  pleasure.  There  are  moments  when  one 
would  lay  hold  forcibly  on  joy,  if  only  a  crime  stood  in 
the  way.  I  know  it;  I  know  it  through  all  those  for 
whom  I  have  successively  hungered,  and  whom  I  have 
scorned  with  shut  eyes — even  those  who  were  not  better 
than  I. 

And  this  hunger  for  novelty — which  makes  sensuous 
love  equally  changeful  and  rapacious,  which  makes  us 
seek  the  same  emotion  in  other  bodies  which  we  cast  off 
as  fast  as  they  fall — turns  life  into  an  infernal  succes- 
sion of  disenchantments,  spites  and  scorn;  and  it  is 
chiefly  that  hunger  for  novelty  which  leaves  us  a  prey 
to  unrealizable  hope  and  irrevocable  regret.  Those  lovers 
who  persist  in  remaining  together  execute  themselves; 
the  name  of  their  common  death,  which  at  first  was 
Absence,  becomes  Presence.  The  real  outcast  is  not  he 
who  returns  all  alone,  like  Olympio;  they  who  remain 
together  are  more  apart. 

By  what  right  does  carnal  love  say,  "I  am  your  hearts 
and  minds  as  well,  and  we  are  indissoluble,  and  I  sweep 
all  along  with  my  strokes  of  glory  and  defeat;  I  am 
Love!"?  It  is  not  true,  it  is  not  true.  Only  by  violence 
does  it  seize  the  whole  of  thought;  and  the  poets  and 
lovers,  equally  ignorant  and  dazzled,  dress  it  up  in  a 


FACE  TO  FACE  305 

grandeur  and  profundity  which  it  has  not.  TEe  heart 
is  strong  and  beautiful,  but  it  is  mad  and  it  is  a  liar. 
Moist  lips  in  transfigured  faces  murmur,  "It's  grand  to 
be  mad!"  No,  you  do  not  elevate  aberration  into  an 
ideal,  and  illusion  is  always  a  stain,  whatever  the  name 
you  lend  it. 

By  the  curtain  in  the  angle  of  the  wall,  upright  and 
motionless  I  am  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  am  shouting  and  struggling. 

When  I  have  spoken  thus,  we  are  no  longer  the  same, 
for  there  are  no  more  lies. 

After  a  silence,  Marie  lifts  to  me  the  face  of  a  ship- 
wrecked woman  with  lifeless  eyes,  and  asks  me: 

"But  if  this  love  is  an  illusion,  what  is  there  left?" 

I  come  near  and  look  at  her,  to  answer  her.  Against 
the  window's  still  pallid  sky  I  see  her  hair,  silvered  with 
a  moonlike  sheen,  and  her  night-veiled  face.  Closely  I 
look  at  the  share  of  sublimity  which  she  bears  on  it,  and 
I  reflect  that  I  am  infinitely  attached  to  this  woman, 
that  it  is  not  true  to  say  she  is  of  less  moment  to  me 
because  desire  no  longer  throws  me  on  her  as  it  used  to 
do.  Is  it  habit?  No,  not  only  that.  Everywhere  habit 
exerts  its  gentle  strength,  perhaps  between  us  two  also. 
But  there  is  more.  There  is  not  only  the  narrowness  of 
rooms  to  bring  us  together.  There  is  more,  there  is 
more!  So  I  say  to  her: 

"There's  you." 

"Me?"  she  says.    "I'm  nothing." 

"Yes,  you  are  everything,  you're  everything  to  me." 

She  has  stood  up,  stammering.  She  puts  her  arms 
around  my  neck,  but  falls  fainting,  clinging  to  me,  and 
I  carry  her  like  a  child  to  the  old  armchair  at  the  end 
of  the  room. 

All  my  strength  has  come  back  to  me.  I  am  no  longer 
wounded  or  ill.  I  carry  her  in  my  arms.  It  is  difficult 
work  to  carry  in  your  arms  a  being  equal  to  yourself. 


3o6  LIGHT 

Strong  as  you  may  be,  you  hardly  suffice  for  it.  And 
what  I  say  as  I  look  at  her  and  see  her,  I  say  because 
I  am  strong  and  not  because  I  am  weak: 

"You're  everything  for  me  because  you  are  you,  and 
I  love  all  of  you." 

And  we  think  together,  as  if  she  were  listening  to  me: 

You  are  a  living  creature,  you  are  a  human  being, 
you  are  the  infinity  that  man  is,  and  all  that  you  are 
unites  me  to  you.  Your  suffering  of  just  now,  your  re- 
gret for  the  ruins  of  youth  and  the  ghosts  of  caresses, 
all  of  it  unites  me  to  you,  for  I  feel  them,  I  share  them. 
Such  as  you  are  and  such  as  I  am.  I  can  say  to  you  at 
last,  "I  love  you." 

I  love  you,  you  who  now  appearing  truly  to  me,  you 
who  truly  duplicate  my  life.  We  have  nothing  to  turn 
aside  from  us  to  be  together.  All  your  thoughts,  all  your 
likes,  your  ideas  and  your  preferences  have  a  place  which 
I  feel  within  me,  and  I  see  that  they  are  right  even  if 
my  own  are  not  like  them  (for  each  one's  freedom  is  part 
of  his  value),  and  I  have  a  feeling  that  I  am  telling  you 
a  lie  whenever  I  do  not  speak  to  you. 

I  am  only  going  on  with  my  thought  when  I  say  aloud: 

"I  would  give  my  life  for  you,  and  I  forgive  you  before- 
hand for  everything  you  might  ever  do  to  make  yourself 
happy." 

She  presses  me  softly  in  her  arms,  and  I  feel  her  mur- 
muring tears  and  crooning  words;  they  are  like  my  own. 

It  seems  to  me  that  truth  has  taken  its  place  again 
in  our  little  room,  and  become  incarnate;  that  the  great- 
est bond  which  can  bind  two  beings  together  is  being 
confessed,  the  great  bond  we  did  not  know  of,  though  it 
is  the  whole  of  salvation: 

"Before,  I  loved  you  for  my  own  sake;  to-day,  I  love 
you  for  yours." 

When  you  look  straight  on,  you  end  by  seeing  the  im- 
mense event — death.  There  is  only  one  thing  which 


FACE  TO  FACE  307 

really  gives  the  meaning  of  our  whole  life,  and  that  is 
our  death.  In  that  terrible  light  may  they  judge  their 
hearts  who  will  one  day  die.  Well  I  know  that  Marie's 
death  would  be  the  same  thing  in  my  heart  as  my  own, 
and  it  seems  to  me  also  that  only  within  her  of  all  the 
world  does  my  own  likeness  wholly  live.  We  are  not 
afraid  of  the  too  great  sincerity  which  goes  the  length 
of  these  things;  and  we  talk  about  them,  beside  the  bed 
which  awaits  the  inevitable  hour  when  we  shall  not  awake 
in  it  again.  We  say: — 

"There'll  be  a  day  when  I  shall  begin  something  that 
I  shan't  finish — a  walk,  or  a  letter,  or  a  sentence,  or  a 
dream." 

I  stoop  over  her  blue  eyes.  Just  then  I  recalled  the 
black,  open  window  in  front  of  me — far  away — that 
night  when  I  nearly  died.  I  look  at  length  into  those 
clear  eyes,  and  see  that  I  am  sinking  into  the  only  grave 
I  shall  have  had.  It  is  neither  an  illusion  nor  an  act 
of  charity  to  admire  the  almost  incredible  beauty  of 
those  eyes. 

What  is  there  within  us  to-night?  What  is  this  sound 
of  wings?  Are  our  eyes  opening  as  fast  as  night  falls? 
Formerly,  we  had  the  sensual  lovers'  animal  dread  of 
nothingness;  but  to-day,  the  simplest  and  richest  proof 
of  our  love  is  that  the  supreme  meaning  of  death  to  us 
is — leaving  each  other. 

And  the  bond  of  the  flesh — neither  are  we  afraid  to 
think  and  speak  of  that,  saying  that  we  were  so  joined 
together  that  we  knew  each  other  completely,  that  our 
bodies  have  searched  each  other.  This  memory,  this 
brand  in  the  flesh,  has  its  profound  value;  and  the  pref- 
erence which  reciprocally  graces  two  beings  like  our- 
selves is  made  of  all  that  they  have  and  all  that  they 
had. 

I  stand  up  in  front  of  Marie — already  almost  a  con- 


3o8  LIGHT 

vert — and  I  tremble  and  totter,  so  much  is  my  heart  my 
master: — 

"Truth  is  more  beautiful  than  dreams,  you  see." 

It  is  simply  the  truth  which  has  come  to  our  aid.  It 
is  truth  which  has  given  us  life.  Affection  is  the  greatest 
of  human  feelings  because  it  is  made  of  respect,  of  lucid- 
ity, and  light.  To  understand  the  truth  and  make  one's 
self  equal  to  it  is  everything;  and  to  love  is  the  same 
thing  as  to  know  and  to  understand.  Affection,  which 
I  call  also  compassion,  because  I  see  no  difference  be- 
tween them,  dominates  everything  by  reason  of  its  clear 
sight.  It  is  a  sentiment  as  immense  as  if  it  were  mad, 
and  yet  it  is  wise,  and  of  human  things  it  is  the  only 
perfect  one.  There  is  no  great  sentiment  which  is  not 
completely  held  on  the  arms  of  compassion. 

To  understand  life,  and  love  it  to  its  depths  in  a  liv- 
ing being,  that  is  the  being's  task,  and  that  his  master- 
piece; and  each  of  us  can  hardly  occupy  his  time  so 
greatly  as  with  one  other;  we  have  only  one  true  neigh- 
bor down  here. 

To  live  is  to  be  happy  to  live.  The  usefulness  of  life 
— ah  I  its  expansion  has  not  the  mystic  shapes  we  vainly 
dreamed  of  when  we  were  paralyzed  by  youth.  Rather 
has  it  a  shape  of  anxiety,  of  shuddering,  of  pain  and 
glory.  Our  heart  is  not  made  for  the  abstract  formula 
of  happiness,  since  the  truth  of  things  is  not  made  for 
it  either.  It  beats  for  emotion  and  not  for  peace.  Such 
is  the  gravity  of  the  truth. 

"You've  done  well  to  say  all  that!  Yes,  it  is  always 
easy  to  lie  for  a  moment.  You  might  have  lied,  but  it 
would  have  been  worse  when  we  woke  up  from  the  lies. 
It's  a  reward  to  talk.  Perhaps  it's  the  only  reward 
there  is." 

She  said  that  profoundly,  right  to  the  bottom  of  my 
heart.  Now  she  is  helping  me,  and  together  we  make 
the  great  searchings  of  those  who  are  too  much  in  the 


FACE  TO  FACE  309 

right.  Marie's  assent  is  so  complete  that  it  is  unexpected 
and  tragic. 

"I  was  like  a  statue,  because  of  the  forgetting  and  the 
grief.  You  have  given  me  life,  you  have  changed  me 
into  a  woman." 

"I  was  turning  towards  the  church,"  she  goes  on; 
"you  hardly  believe  in  God  so  much  when  you've  no 
need  of  Him.  When  you're  without  anything,  you  can 
easily  believe  in  Him.  But  now,  I  don't  want  any 
longer." 

Thus  speaks  Marie.  Only  the  idolatrous  and  the 
weak  have  need  of  illusion  as  of  a  remedy.  The  rest 
only  need  see  and  speak. 

She  smiles,  vague  as  an  angel,  hovering  in  the  purity 
of  the  evening  between  light  and  darkness.  I  am  so 
near  to  her  that  I  must  kneel  to  be  nearer  still.  I  kiss 
her  wet  face  and  soft  lips,  holding  her  hand  in  both  of 
mine. 

Yes,  there  is  a  Divinity,  one  from  which  we  must 
never  turn  aside  for  the  guidance  of  our  huge  inward 
life  and  of  the  share  we  have  as  well  in  the  life  of  all 
men.  It  is  called  the  truth. 


THE  END 


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